An Unexpected Realisation
by Kittie Darkhart
Summary: A belated birthday gift to my good friend, Katherine NotGreat. After being forbidden her true love, Wendy comes across a most startling truth. Time machines, swords fights, unloved children, and a desperate hope convince her to reclaim the man she loves.
1. Chapter I: The Opening Act

Disclaimer: I do not own _Peter Pan_, characters, places, etc. All rights belong to J.M. Barrie. Also, parts mentioned from the 2003 P.J. Hogan film belong to Universal Studios and their respected owners. The segment with the time machine belongs to H.G. Wells and Dreamworks Pictures. As for original characters and the plot itself, that _does_ belong to me and my friend, Katherine NotGreat. Please do not use such without permission.

Summary: A belated birthday gift to my good friend, Katherine NotGreat. After being torn away from her true love, Wendy comes across a most startling truth. Time machines, swords fights, a host of needful children, and a desperate love convince the storyteller to make a journey into Seventeenth Century England to reclaim the man that she loves.

An Unexpected Realisation

Chapter One

_'So I travelled, stopping ever and again, in great strides of a thousand years or more, drawn on by the mystery of the earth's fate, watching with a strange fascination the sun grow larger and duller in the westward sky, and the life of the old earth ebb away__.'_ – The Time Traveller to his Guests, from H.G. Wells', _The Time Machine_, Chapter XI

…

Cambridge, England

March, 1912

To anyone who posed the contrary, the grandeur of a modernised London was nothing, in comparison to the stark beauty and natural wonder of the Neverland. The city lights, which complimented boutique windows—that assuredly held the latest in women's fashion—were a poor illumination, compared the simple light of one of the island's countless faeries. The cobblestone streets and plethora of noisy black automobiles, again, came to a dull second to a world, far beyond all human comprehension. Since it was such a world that few could ever visit, whilst only most would often long to see in their dreams. For dreams were funny things; as, with the inevitable return of those fortunate few to have seen the Neverland—not only in their dreams—but had seen the island itself come true, those were indeed the precious few whose adventures, if consciously forgotten, were returned to them through dreams.

But for one, such memories were more of a pain than pleasure to harbour within, as the human heart, though a metaphorical figure, can still suffer the loss of something—even more profound, if not more precious than the Neverland itself—when growing up has replaced those childhood adventures with something more. Such had been the fate of the Neverland's storyteller, who had both loved and lost and had ultimately given up any hope of reclaiming that which her heart longed to again recover.

For it was after the extraordinary events—and most especially, after the much unforeseen twist of fate that had, rather unfortunately, transpired between she and Peter Pan's greatest foe—in the Neverland, Wendy Darling had thus returned to a semi-normal, semi-complacent life in her own world. The impassive, cold London rain had been a fitting welcome when she returned—mercifully by a pinch of faerie dust, though without any happy thoughts to accompany it—to her beloved home of No. 14, where a throng of familiar faces—all of which expressing unspoken relief—had greeted her upon her return.

She almost sighed at the memory it. Her reunion with her family had not been one of a joyous occasion, since she had, according to her father, 'Been gone for only a few hours', when, in reality, she had spent _days_ in the company of a most notorious and villainous pirate, known by many as Captain Hook.

The pen in her hand shook at the thought of his name, a few drops of ink splattering upon the ivory stationary underneath. Wendy glanced at the trailing mess left by her sudden upset, the blackened parchment now a ruined failure in her already pitiful attempt to forget that which lay, however presently dormant, in the back of her mind. She closed her eyes for a brief moment, her thoughts torn by her present reality, as she sat, cold and alone, at her desk.

Attending Cambridge had been a blessing to her; for although her family—most specifically, her Aunt Millicent—had been wont to disapprove in her attending a ladies' college, had reluctantly conceded. _Of course, Mother and Father understood my need to leave London, since I had nothing else to keep my sanity intact_, she thought, sensibly in her need for coming here, since she was now away from the source of memories, the nursery window—so different, from the bay window in her dormitory's room—which had been the epicentre of her discontent, now as distant as the Neverland itself.

Her studies had been a much-welcomed distraction, where science, art, and history filled her days with determination to better her station, structuring her life with meaning, with purpose. She could become a historian, a writer, perhaps even a politician, though the latter still seemed almost an impossibility—most especially since Wendy herself was not overly fond of politics. But then, her Aunt Millicent would be appalled by her choice of profession. Wendy almost laughed as she considered her aunt's expression, mouth agape and powdered face paling with utter shock, since her Aunt Millicent would surely, no longer find need to instruct her in the ways of becoming a lady, either. _Not that I ever, actually intended to be one_, she thought dryly. _For why should I fain become an adornment to one whose brains are not in his head, but surely lay elsewhere_? The reality of such defied all reasonable logic; for far be it that she remain unattended in a facility that taught those of her fair sex to have a tongue behind those rouge-painted lips, and a mind that actually thought. To Wendy, women were not a barrel of unfettered, feminine emotions, but rational, human beings who thought and felt, just like any man. James had taught her that. Of course, he had taught her many things…

Her eyes darkened at the thought of him, his name uttered in a soft whisper. He would always be James to her, never his pirate's dreadful moniker. He had even insisted that she call him such, should they ever find themselves in the presence of Peter himself—not that Wendy ever intended either adversary to ever cross each other's paths again; she had to be the buffer between them, after all. _And yet_, her mind gently contested, _I am no longer needed in the Neverland, since he is not there, and will surely never will be again_.

A single tear threatened to fall from a dark-brown eye, her countenance nought but a porcelain-hued mask of despair. "But then, the course of true love never did run smooth," she murmured, vacantly, half-despising its light-hearted origin. Shakespeare's tragedies had been a mild comfort to her, since she could not bring herself to read his comedies of romance and infatuation, where most, if not all had their _happily-ever-after_. It was not for Wendy to indulge herself in that which would never happen; it was not in her fate, since her heart lay in the better part of two centuries past, as it beat in another whose own heart, she knew, to be in her present.

He had been aggrieved to leave her, the duty of his past claiming everything but his heart, for that, Wendy realised, he could never return to the one who sought rightful ownership of it. Wendy muttered an unladylike curse at the lady in question, the hand which held her pen almost snapping it in two. God in Heaven, but how she loathed that woman! _She took him away, when he was finally happy_. Her face contorted into an expression of pain, for she could not wholly regret Hook's decision, in his returning to those who needed him: his own children. She could never begrudge him that fatherly duty, since it was not in her to deny those who had been long left without a father; but then, nor could she intercede upon a marriage that had transpired, long before she drew her first breath. Perhaps the Duchess Anne had a rightful claim on her husband's heart, but Wendy felt the opposite, something within her own heart screaming that such was not true, that James' heart was rightfully _hers_.

A sudden stab of pain entered her mind, her emotions in turmoil as the storm without did nothing to ease the churning tempest residing from within. Was this how love was? she wondered, vaguely. Did it often vex the human heart so? Was this how her parents felt, when they themselves had courted in their youth, so long ago? Wendy knew her parents to be a love match, since they were rarely apart from one another for long; and even though her mother had given her own hidden kiss to Peter, Wendy knew that her mother loved her father dearly. She knew that they loved her—as well as her brothers, and therein lay the rub. Since her return, she felt disinclined to share her sorrows with them, her secrets her own. She barely spoke to her parents, who had thoroughly expressed only worry and concern over her _sudden_ disappearance, and were even more surprised when she said, in a low, soft voice that she was not to marry anyone, her heart remaining true to the one she could never have.

For such had been the reason for her attending college. She would be away from the suffocating presence of her parents and aunt, since her brothers—with the exception of John and Nibs, who were also attending college at a distant Oxford—were away at Harrow. She wrote the occasional letter to them, all of which were calm and pleasant, and never once disclosing that which she truly felt inside. She wrote of her studies, of her continued interest in becoming a novelist—albeit not one of a romantic nature, surely—since such had never left her, not even after her latest adventure in the Neverland. She even wrote of her reliance in reading Blake and Tennyson—though none of the Lake Poets—as the former two tended to indulge her storyteller's imagination, and not pain her with memories of the past. _I shall have to continue in my reading of Mr. Blake's _Marriage of Heaven and Hell, she considered briefly, before setting the ink-stained letter to John aside, her mind already engaged in her present course: in her reading of England's Restoration.

Her professor had tasked her class in reading a comprehensive chapter covering the years _after_ Charles II's passing, and his brother's ascension to the throne. Wendy dreaded reading the assignment, since it reminded her of a very complex, very complicated family history—one of which she had no wish to consider, since she, of late, knew how it affected her personally. _Oh, why could he have not been some other king's son?_ she thought brokenly, and reluctantly grasped a thick, dark-blue book from among a plethora of others. Wendy grimaced at it, with its worn, mouldering spine and faded gold letters; it was wholly unlike its equally dulled, much _thinner _red, orange, and green companions that covered other knowledgeable subjects, as it was a rarity within itself—a massive tome that had surely been handed down by other Cambridge alumni _since_ the Restoration.

Half-curious, as was her nature, Wendy turned to the page which detailed the ending of the Merry Monarch's reign, her dark eyes observing every word and reading every line as the past came to life from the dusty pages she beheld. She shook her head, attempting to set aside the vision in her mind, for it appeared to her like an intricate tapestry of history that contained a man whom she knew, most intimately.

She sighed again, for it was not uncommon for her to fantasise over the past. It was almost like playing dress-up, though without the time it took to properly lace a corset. Wendy almost smiled at the comparison, her eyes falling once more to the book in hand. James II's ascension to the throne did not impress her. Nor, apparently, did it the author himself, since he seemed to be rather indifferent on the subject. No, it was that which _followed_ that captured her attention. Her eyes narrowed in dissolution as she read that which concerned her personally: the Monmouth Rebellion. _Oh, dear, James, you poor, misguided fool. How could you have hoped to attain the throne in such a way? You surely knew it to be only folly. Oh, my poor fool of a love_…

Frowning at her beloved's tactless ignorance, she nevertheless continued as she read of his capture and sentencing. So he had been sentenced to death by a very irate and much-affronted uncle, his execution coming in the form of a swift, sharp axe—or rather, a swift, dulled axe, as such had surely been the case. She almost snorted at the number of times it took to allegedly _remove_ his head—far more than what it had surely taken Peter to remove James' hand with a child's dagger. Wendy baulked at the notion. God only knew how he had survived it. _If that man was _really_ James, that is_, she thoughtfully deduced. She somewhat doubted that he had actually _been_ there, with his illegitimate royal head laying boldly upon the chopping block, those forget-me-not eyes looking toward Heaven in supplication. Perhaps his uncle, with a shared namesake, had been lenient, after all, though Wendy doubted it. From what she read and knew of the monarch, he had not been too fond of his brother's rebellious issue, since his eldest nephew attempted to overthrow his rule.

Glancing at a black and white portrait of a man in, what was surely a garish wig, adorned in a thick layer of perfumed, arsenic-toned powder, Wendy made a face at the engraving of a stoic-faced James II, finding, rather satisfactorily, that her beloved had no need of one; his hair as real and dark and wild as her own. And even more, it was little wonder _why_, when posed by her brother John on his and Michael's joining the _Jolly Roger _as cabin boys, had her James been so heartily opposed to being a 'Loyal subject to the king'; that very noble crowned head had once sought need to execute him. _Of course, he should not feel that way now_, though Wendy, methodically,_ since it is another family sitting upon the throne_.

Though all the same, she could not fault him for feeling a little angry with his family—most especially, with that of his _uncle_—since none had, apparently, come to his defence. She doubted that even his ever-faithful duchess had fallen on bended knee before an impassive James, as she begged for mercy and that of her husband's life. _She was probably, already being courted by a throng of sympathetic suitors, who found themselves presently enamoured by a soon-to-be widow_. Wendy almost scoffed at the consideration, scolding herself over such spiteful musings. It would do little to condemn that which she had no evidence, though her gut told her otherwise. Lady or not, Wendy knew that the Duchess Anne was far from claiming that most-coveted title, as Wendy herself—a mere commoner—would never attain such for her own…

Setting aside her present discord, however, she made to continue in her reading; for as she turned to another page, she found herself graced with a youthful and most handsome likeness of the Duke of Monmouth himself. Wendy looked away, hesitant, diffident in seeing one so noble a brow, and yet so close to her that she could not bring herself to acknowledge him as anything other than a captain of a mighty pirate ship. He was not a duke, not a bastard prince from a now-extinct line; he was simply James, and that acknowledgement, combined with its bittersweet sentiment, pained her most of all. _Oh, James_…_it_ _is almost impossible to continue without you. And to think, I actually hated you for keeping me at your side. And now, _she_ has you_…She closed her eyes, fighting the tears that would inevitably come if she allowed them. She would not. It would simply not do to mourn over that which she could not amend.

Half-defeated, she turned once more to the image of the man who stared out of the pages of history, his forget-me-not eyes shaded in tones of sepia, his boyish countenance yellowed by age. Wendy touched the ancient page, a few of her tiny fingers tracing over that majestic face with utmost care. He was without his beard and moustache, his long dark hair untroubled by a few wisps of grey she had seen at his temples. He wore a fashionable suit of armour, his hands—_both_ _of_ _them_—resting assuredly at his sides. He was remarkable, to be sure. Wendy narrowed her eyes. The painting itself had surely been commissioned by him, as he could have been no more than thirty-five at the time. _But he looks younger than thirty_, Wendy thoughtfully argued. She frowned at the consideration, and her eyes fell once more upon the life of her beloved.

The lives of his children were also mentioned, and Wendy lamented how he had lost a few, who had either died young, or in infancy. A tear escaped from her, as the storyteller recalled his _aversion_ to children. It was little wonder _why_ the thought of children pained him so; he had suffered what no parent should, as he had lost half of those closest to him. Four out of eight children. It was a staggering sum to consider. _And was surely, part of his reason for returning to those still living. He had believed them dead for so long_…

Shaking her head at the realisation, she continued on, her eyes, though brimming with unshed tears, discovering that which occurred _after_ the Duke of Monmouth's _alleged_ death. James II had executed most of the duke's followers. Even a woman, who had lodged a few of the followers, had not been spared from the rope. _How utterly disgusting, this king, since I can now understand _why_ James was not so fond of speaking of his family_, Wendy thought, with a note of disgust. In truth, Hook rarely ever spoke of his past, only relating to his time at Eton, and his love of always having good form. Wendy allowed herself to smile at the memory of it, for his family was certainly lacking such an inborn quality. And it was such a quality that, upon turning the next page, Wendy found the world—her very own existence—tilt on its proverbial axis.

For there she found herself: face to face with the woman she despised. She could scarcely breathe, her pensive expression transforming into a hideous scowl—a scowl, she was sure, that Mr. Hyde himself would be loathe to mimic in his nightly jaunts across a fog-imbued London—that would surely place those closest to her, including her prodding Aunt Millicent, in an uproar. And yet, Wendy herself, if the truth were known, could care less for her aunt's sensitivities as her gaze remained upon the one who had taken all that she loved in a fatal instant.

"Dreadful woman," she muttered coldly, and without care. She was half-tempted to spit on the likeness, with its teasing smile and provoking expression. _I should very well tear her image apart, as she does so to my heart_, Wendy mordantly threatened, but had the good sense to refrain. Against her better judgement, she read of the woman whom her beloved had married, and found that which startled her most.

"Oh, my dear God," Wendy breathed out, her voice, barely a whisper, as what she knew and believed as the truth came to startling halt before her. Frantically, she glanced at the year, a faint and fragile hope wearing upon her despair. _It had only been a few years after his death that she… How on Earth could she have the heart to do such to James, and to her children?_ she questioned, surely a rhetorical impulse, since only the worn tome before her could answer that which her thoughts entailed. _As such are those of a realisation, most expected_, she thought distractedly, almost disbelievingly.

Setting her present thoughts aside, she continued on in her pursuit of the truth, as she read every word, and almost gasped as the lush countryside of a distant Wales overtook her imagination. For the vision in her mind's eye was beyond imaginable, almost tangible, as if returning her to that marked point in time where he beloved surely dwelled even now, for she knew that he was not dead, but alive; she would have felt his passing otherwise.

For in this imaginary world her mind concocted, she could hear the rustling of fresh green leaves in the trees, a warm, spring wind alighting upon her face. She could feel and taste the sunlight, the grass under her feet a stark contrast to the hard, dirtied, cobblestone streets she was so often used to treading upon in London. It was almost like the Neverland itself, its beauty left untouched by the corruption of man. _Was _this_ what England looked like before progress took hold?_ she wondered, idly. If so, then she could understand why Hook spoke so fondly of the countryside, and how he loved simple things, as flowers and listening to the rhythmic beauty of nature.

In the present, however, she closed her eyes, pained; as such beauty was far from the truth of her present reality, since it was a cold, dismal day for the lives of those who endured the ever-present company of the ever-constant, English rain. She cried out in her frustration. It almost felt _real_ to her, almost as if she were seeing it through another's eyes—_his_ eyes—for the emotions she felt were almost those of a memory, and not derived from her imagination. _How is this possible?_ she thought wildly, her breathing unsteady, heightened by the sudden sensation that she was not alone. _James, how are you doing this? Though even more, _why_ are you doing this? Can you not know how much I miss you? Being away from you is tearing me apart! I have to find you again. I must. I need you, as it is that I now know what I must do_.

Retrieving her pen, she grasped a new sheet of paper, her many, winding thoughts channelled into a single purpose, her look determined. She dipped her pen in the black ink that would set all into motion, the universe itself shifting around her intent to right a wrong, two hundred years and twenty-three years in the past. She wrote steadily, she wrote with purpose; for when she was finished, there was not a smudge of ink, or an imperfection to be found on the short missive that would be sent along with the evening's post. Wendy sealed the letter in an envelope, her hand denoting two names on its exterior as she placed a penny stamp to insure its arrival.

Standing away from her desk, she made her way to the window, and looked at her reflection in its translucent glass panes. Her hair was done up in a proper bun, a few, black wayward wisps contradicting her otherwise composed expression. She considered her reflection, and almost laughed at its _womanly_ appearance. Her white blouse and plain brown skirt blatantly opposed the lavish gowns Hook had offered her. _As he would surely be most upset to see my hair, for he has a strange tendency to free it every time he sees it bound in pins_. Shaking her head at the thought, she turned to the letter upon her desk. John and Nibs would receive her note, as they would surely come to her aid.

"For after all," she said as she once again turned to her reflection in the window, "they are the only ones who can surely agree to what I ask…"

She remained by the window for the rest of the evening, with only silence and her thoughts for company.

…

_Two days later_…

"Oh, good God, Wendy, you cannot, honestly, be serious about all of this! I still cannot believe that you sent us such a letter!" exclaimed a very infuriated John, his chagrined expression made red by more than the cold rain. He muttered a curse as he removed his spectacles and wiped them. "Damned rain, always fogging these horrid things up," he groused, before righting them upon the bridge of his nose. He then removed his coat, his hands made wet by its sodden black exterior. He grimaced at the feel of it, before turning that perturbed look to Wendy. "Of all of the times you could have asked us for such a thing, Wendy. Exams are in a week, and you expect Nibs and me to drop everything on so short a notice, and for what, a lost love, wronged by a woman he calls _wife_?"

Wendy looked at him, nonplussed. "John," she began, taking his wet coat into her arms, and setting it on a nearby chair, "I understand that my letter took you and Nibs, certainly by surprise, but I can assure you that your presence here was of great importance."

John had the grace not to snort, where he instead decided to take in the small, confined space that had been a sanctuary to his sister. He looked at it with its poorly-tended furniture, worn woollen rugs, and yellowed moth-eaten curtains. The only good thing recognisable, other than Wendy herself, was the plethora of books, which seemed to overflow on the tables and floor. The smell of dust and well-read books inundated the room, almost like an exotic perfume. He almost sighed at his sister's odd preference in choosing a book's company over a potential suitor's. What a mercy it had been that they—he and Nibs, to be precise—had been allowed to see her in the privacy of her room. _Otherwise, I doubt Wendy would have allowed our departure until she _did_ see us_, his mind added dryly, his exams an ever-looming reality. "Emergency or not, though," he continued on, thoughtfully, "I still cannot believe that you sent for us…over _him_."

A look of shock overcame Wendy's otherwise placid expression, that lovely, sweet-mocking mouth gaping in disbelief. "John—" she began, but was soundly interrupted by a laughing Nibs.

A shock of golden-blonde hair came to rest upon that marble-toned forehead, his dancing blue eyes a marvellous contradiction to hers and John's solemn dark ones. He tilted his head to the side, a mischievous wink only for she. "Oh, Wendy, do not take whatever John says to heart," he assured her, ever the mediator between she and John. "He and I have yet to even begin our studies, anyhow." He ignored John's disapproving look. "Well, it's true, John, since you and I decided to enjoy the fine company of two ladies at a place in town last ni—ahhhh!"

John rolled his eyes at his brother's childish display. Really, one would think that a slight tugging at the ear would not hurt as much. Former Lost Boy or not, Nibs was completely assimilated into this fine world of comfort and leisure. "Oh, really," he suddenly chided, wholly put-out by his brother's bold admission—not that he had anything to do with a lady's company, since it was the ever-gay and debonair Nibs who had acquired both ladies in question for the evening. _And night_, he dryly put in, but decided not to dwell on that little fact. He could still remember that most unfortunate and wakeful night. _Since I have to share the bloody room with him_…

Scowling at Nibs' continued cries, and Wendy's demands of 'Letting Nibs go', he promptly released his brother's ear. He waited for only a moment before speaking. Adjusting his spectacles, he eyed both Nibs and Wendy, critical in his assessment of them. "Now, that I have your attention," he broached, just as acutely, "I should like to return to the matter in hand." He turned that discerning, dark-eyed gaze to Wendy. "Namely, your plight in saving one, who, as you so duly and forthrightly informed us, is also responsible for taking you away—I grant, of your own free will—before your wedding—which I actually have to thank him for disrupting, since you finally saw what a cad your former fiancé is—and abducting you as well as the rest of us as children, in order to get to Peter, and for almost making you walk the plank."

Nibs granted John a maddening grin. "Bravo, brother dear," he clapped, mockingly, "I daresay you managed to list all of the blackguard's offences against us in that one sentence alone."

John cast him a withering glance. "Oh, do shut up, Nibs. I've better things to do, than to hear your nonsense, since we are both here, to help our sister."

His brother smirked. "Spoken like a true gentleman," he returned, those golden brows waggling in jest. "You know, John, you should honestly consider taking things less seriously. When do you allow yourself to enjoy the pleasures in life? Why, just the other day you could have enjoyed the company of any number of girls at that gathering. But no, you chose to indulge your mind in dusty old books that have so much less to offer you in companionship. You could have so much more than that. You could be like—"

"As I would be exactly like you, you mean to say?" interrupted John matter-of-factly.

"Indeed so," Nibs concurred, wholly missing the sarcasm in his brother's meaning.

Wendy, however, lest she be forgotten in this most, frightfully engaging discourse, merely shook her head. "Nibs, John," she interjected softly, tiredly, "please. This is not the time to quibble over such matters; you can do such on your return to Oxford. But for now, I need your help. I need _both_ of you."

Nibs and John turned to acknowledge her, their expressions harbouring the same amount of shame in behaving so childishly in front of her. "We apologise for our ill-consideration in forgetting you, Wendy," murmured John in response, his dark eyes beseeching hers. "We know that we cannot sway you on remaining here with us, since you instead wish to return to your captain, though we surely wish it otherwise. Your mind is already set finding him, isn't it?"

Wendy only nodded. "He needs me, John," she returned quietly, her small hands cradled tightly before her. "I understand that neither you nor Nibs approve of my decision, and that the rest of our brothers would certainly be against the idea of my returning to such a _loathsome_ and _dreaded_ man, but, John, he is so much more than that. I daresay that we have been so terribly wrong about him. He is not at all what he first seemed to us in the Neverland."

A dark eyebrow rose in accusation. "Not all what he seemed to us?" John reiterated, sputtering out in disbelief. "Wendy, he damned near made you walk the plank. I doubt I shall ever forget his tying you to the mainmast and holding you as he did! Do you not remember how he confronted you? How he _touched_ you? Good God, it was apparent that he had ill-intentions for you from the very beginning. Can you not see, that to return to him would be folly? Why you are even considering in seeing him again _is_ beyond folly. It is absolute madness. Wendy, please try to at least reconsider this and—"

"You will not say such of him again, John," Wendy harshly broke in, her eyes darkening in unspoken anger. "I remember everything that happened quite well enough; and even though I admit in agreeing with you over James' _fondness_ of me even then, he has not laid a hand, or a hook upon me. I am still as innocent and chaste as the day I left the Neverland that first time."

Nibs stared at her, slack-jawed. "Then he has not _seduced_ you?" He looked at John, wholly contented. "Well, there you have it, John: the captain is not so terrible, after all, keeping Wendy's virtue safe and all. He may just _be_ a gentleman, after all!"

And yet, in spite of such an unexpected—though much-appreciated, if not brazenly embarrassing—revelation, John could only sigh in defeat. He looked away from Wendy, for fear of another sudden outburst, in her defence of that most wretched villain. God in Heaven, but what had that man done to her? His sweet, retiring, beautiful sister had somehow been corrupted by this dread pirate; and he, whether he wished it otherwise, was going to aid her in seeing him again.

"You really love him, don't you?" he questioned suddenly, turning to her in dismay, those spectacled eyes harbouring a sense of regret. His sister's wide-eyed gaze, open and full of honesty, was like a knife wedging itself, inch by impossible inch, into his already vulnerable heart.

It was most unfortunate for Wendy that she failed to notice what her look inflicted. "I do," she answered softly, innocently, that final inch driven into her brother's already breaking heart, almost splitting it in two. "I have for a very long time, John."

Resigned, John nodded his head in silent defeat. "Then I shall help you find him," he said, barely managing to retain an ounce of his lost composure. "Against my better judgment, I shall do all that you ask of me." He then turned a sober eye toward his brother. "And Nibs shall also help, since he is quite knowledgeable, in finding a way to acquire that which you seek. You _have_ figured out a way, haven't you, Nibs?"

The former Lost Boy grinned triumphantly. "Of course I have," he returned, as if glad to once again be part of the conversation, as he also turned towards a hopeful Wendy. "I have the perfect means in undoing this most terrible travesty."

Both Wendy and John looked at him, curiously. Nibs merely smiled.

With an embellished look in his eye, he looked at his brother and sister as if his answer were obvious. "You have considered that which I am about to pose, surely," he prodded.

Wendy frowned at him. "What is it that you suggest, Nibs?" she demanded, not in the mood for her brother's games.

Nibs shook his head with a feigned gesture of resignation. "You surely don't know, do you?" he asked quietly, those bright-blue eyes, for once, expressing sincerity instead of cynicism. He truly sympathised with his sister's plight, even though he regretted her choice of a suitor. "What I suggest, dear sister," he began sedately, "is that which is found only in fiction and in dreams. Even Physics has yet to define the logic behind it; for what I speak of is time travel. Oh, you may laugh, John, but I am quite serious," he said, turning a critical eye upon a sceptical John. "I've considered the possibility of it for some time now, and have, even before Wendy asked for our aid, even configured a way to manage it."

John snorted, those spectacled eyes harbouring doubt. "And how on Earth do you propose to accomplish such a thing? You've never once spoken of it!"

An insightful Nibs merely shrugged. "To be perfectly honest, I did not see any reason in telling you, John. What would it matter, anyway? You would have laughed at me as you do even now."

"I am not laughing at you," John returned, defensively. "I just fail to understand how you intend to carry out this plan of yours; you are not a scientist, Nibs."

But again, John's reasoning was greeted by a careless shrug. "I may not be in the eyes of Oxford," replied Nibs, "Or even by its Fellows, but I do consider myself one of a scientific mind, John. And as such, I shall create a time machine—not only for Wendy's sake—but for ours, as well."

"What is that you mean, Nibs?" asked Wendy, half-suspiciously, and yet was only greeted with a widening grin.

Giving a confiding look to John, Nibs conceded to Wendy's question. "All in good time, sister dearest," he said, and then reached into the deeply enlaced pockets of his frock coat. He tugged at something, almost struggling, before finally revealing that which had been concealed within his coat's thick brown lining. "Aha, I knew I had brought with me! Terrible thing, really, since it sometimes becomes lodged in its hiding place, though," he muttered, half in embarrassment, half in jest. He handed the object to Wendy, who immediately recognised it.

She looked up at him, her hopeful eyes full of uncertainty. "You have a copy of _The Time Machine_? How is this to help us, Nibs?" she echoed, doubtfully.

John scoffed. "Oh, you cannot be serious! That is but a work of fiction; Mr. H.G. Wells would even tell you so himself!"

But Nibs remained undaunted by the fact. "Regardless of Mr. Wells might say—which I am sure that what I believe is the contrary to his own ideas—I still intend to put his notion of such into practise." He gave Wendy a conspiring wink. "And since, having no copy of his marvellous work to call my own, I merely relieved Aunt Millicent of hers."

John's eyes widened in disbelief. "You _stole_ Aunt Millicent's book? What in God's name possessed you, to do such a thing?"

Nibs gave him a disapproving frown. "Steal is such a strong, harsh word, John," he carefully admonished. "You injure me with such vain convictions on my person. No, I did not _steal_ her book, merely _borrowed_ it, as I doubt that the old harpy will find it gone, anyhow. And besides which," he pragmatically continued, "I believe that my using it will benefit us more than it ever will her; for how can we help Wendy otherwise?"

"Help indeed," John sneered.

Again, Nibs frowned. "You know very well that, if Aunt Millicent knew of our intentions, that she would put a stop to Wendy ever seeing the captain again. And where would _we_ be, but with a broken-hearted sister? It will simply not do, John, just as I equally suspect that you will not say a word to Mother or Father, or to the rest of our brothers, for that matter. I cannot have anyone knowing of this."

"And you won't," John promised him, for he saw that hopeful look on Wendy's face dashed by the prospect of being kept from her captain. With a resigned sigh, he at last conceded. "Very well, Nibs: we shall do this your way."

His brother grinned in triumph as he gave Wendy an assuring smile. "You must not worry any more over this, Wendy. Indeed, I shall have you returned to your captain in less than a week."

"But our exams are in a week," John interjected.

Nibs shook his head. "Those exams are of little importance; I already _know_ what shall be on them, anyhow. Why do see me never study, John?" he teased, and his bright eyes caught Wendy's. "The professors at our respective Oxford are much, too predictable to count upon in their surprising us. I fail to understand _why_ John studies so hard. But indeed, you mustn't concern yourself any more over this, Wendy; I shall send for you in a week. You can take the midnight train, I trust?"

To John's horror, Wendy nodded fervently. "I shall come at any time. Even if I am found missing by the chancellor himself, I shall come, Nibs. I care not of the consequences."

Nibs only laughed, that cavalier grin almost reminiscent of her beloved Hook's. "Ever one still in need for a little adventure, I see! Good girl! At least you are not as stiff and as lifeless as John!" He received a snort at the remark, a perturbed John affronted by the knowledge of Wendy not having a chaperone at so late an hour.

"For how can you throw all caution to the wind like this?" he demanded of her. "Do you not realise the consequences if you are caught? Do you no longer _care_ for you reputation? Good God, Wendy, you could be hurt on your way to the station!"

But Wendy only laughed, her look one of expectation. "And that is why _you_ shall accompany _to_ Oxford," she put in, those soulful eyes expressing true sincerity. "I shall need your help then, John, as I know of no other who can accompany me there. I know that you would not want me to come alone, so if you do me this one honour and—"

"Of course I shall come," he suddenly broke in. "I'd rather fail my exams, than to see you harmed. Yes, I shall come and take you to Oxford, Wendy," he promised her, as a small smile—the first he had expressed since his being there—emerged, "as I doubt any _other_ could endure your fawning over that pirate of yours. I shall come for you after lock-out time."

Wendy smiled before placing a sisterly kiss upon his cheek. "Thank you, John," she said, her arms encircling both brothers as she drew them close. "I would not know what I would have done without either of you. You have saved both him and me from a terrible fate in being separated forever."

Both John and Nibs afforded their one and only sister a smile before the three converged on their plans to bend both space and time, in order for Wendy to conclude her story as it should have concluded—before the duchess had ruined everything, and had left a man to suffer a punishment that no true father and husband deserved.

…

_One week later_…

As promised, John had secured passage for him and Wendy, as both boarded the midnight express to Oxford.

"You are truly certain about all of this?" he muttered to a darkly-clothed Wendy under his breath, as he took her meagre bag of luggage and boarded the train. He had to wait for her answer, however, as they passed by a few of their fellow passengers. He kept his eyes averted to the worn, red-carpeted floor until they were, again, quite alone. He then turned his gaze toward her once again. "You are quite sure of this?" he reiterated, as if hoping that she would change her mind.

Wendy looked at him from under her heavily veiled hat. "Of course I am," she whispered, just as quietly, her large, feather-brimmed hat concealing most of her face with its violet length and white feathered plumes. A gloved hand tilted it a fraction to the side, so that her eyes met his. "I have never been more certain of anything in my entire life."

But John remained incredulous. "And what of your studies?" he questioned, before having the decency to help her to her seat. "Have you forgotten how important they are to you? Mother and Father spent more than a mere sixpence for your fine lady's education, or have you forgotten that, as well?"

"Of course I have not!" Wendy bit back sharply. "But I realise that I cannot have both, John, and finding James is far more important, than my attending a college from which I shall _never_ attain a real degree." She stared down at the floor for a moment, her look conflicted. "I regret abandoning my studies, solely for the fact that Mother and Father were the reason for my being able to attend, but I cannot leave him, John. Knowing what I now know to be the truth," she said, and her eyes met his once more, "I cannot abandon him in his hour of need. And I doubt that Mother and Father would accept my leaving him, either."

John, having now placed Wendy's luggage in a net above his seat, inclined his head forward in understanding as he sat down across from her. He took one of her hands into his and squeezed it, as he regarded her plight with sympathy; for although he knew that Cambridge—since its foundation had been laid centuries before—had finally allowed the admission of women to enter its sanctified domain of learning, had not given its female students the same privileges as its had so graciously those of his own sex. Granted, Cambridge was the first in the country to allow women to attend college, it had not fully recognised them as being on the same level as its male students, in awarding them a much-sought-after degree. Women were not even permitted to governing the college, and he pitied Wendy all the more for it, because he _knew_ that she deserved a degree as any man, worthy of the title, did. _For a girl such as she is worth more than a trainload of boys_, he added mirthfully, remembering Peter's remark, and regretting Wendy's love for another.

Shaking his head, John set aside the painful reality of Wendy's infatuation—or, love, as she deemed it—of Captain Hook. How she had managed to lose her heart to such a man was something John could never understand, let alone accept. _It is as if she is an entirely different person since she came home_, he thought miserably, as he considered her distant expression. He nearly recoiled at the realisation. _Even_ _now_, s_he is thinking of him. Oh, that villain is fortunate to be two centuries away from me. What I would say to him of his conduct_!

Of course, John's ruminations on his previous encounter with the captain were a meagre drop in a pail of water, compared to the vast ocean of memories his sister so evocatively summoned of 'Her beloved James'. It galled him to acknowledge it, that faraway look of hers as distant as the two centuries that separated her from her errant suitor. For that torn expression remained—well after John set aside any hope of recovering his sister's reason to remain with those who loved and understood her. But did he truly understand her? Or, more appropriate to note, did any? To John, his sister suffered from either a lovelorn loss of her one-true-love or from pure and utter madness—he could not distinguish which—caused by one whom he feared, in the event of seeing Wendy once again, would take his sister from him forever. There would be no 'letting her return to her family'—not if John knew Hook as he believed he knew him.

He looked at Wendy once more, lost in his own powerlessness to prevent the inevitable. It would grieve him to lose her so soon, but he accepted it, if only for her sake. Her happiness was the sole reason in why he had agreed in going along with Nibs on this damned fool's venture in creating a time machine in the first place. If returning Wendy to the one who made her the happiest returned that loving smile of hers upon her face, then he would agree to making a thousand time machines.

For with the exception of their mother, Wendy was the only girl—woman—John knew of who ever mattered to him, and he would be damned if he was the one to break her heart over his selfishness in keeping her away from the prying eyes of those unworthy of her. He kept such thoughts to himself, as he reluctantly acknowledged, that the one deserving of her, would probably keep her with him forever. He doubted that Hook, upon recovering that which he so chivalrously relinquished, would ever release Wendy's heart, and John conceded to the fact of it, his brotherly affection compelling him to give in and surrender to the one, whom he believed, would be Wendy's husband—notwithstanding his possibly of already being married. Such mattered a great deal to John, of course, but he knew that Wendy, with her woman's intuition was right in her argument: that no man, even one considered so vile and repugnant as Hook, deserved such a fate he surely endured even now, in a time far from his beloved Wendy's. John inclined his head forward, a silent submission to an equally silent Wendy, whose desperate expression mirrored his own, even if he kept his hidden, deep within the dark recesses of his metaphorical _heart_.

Their conversation—whatever little they shared—had died many miles before they reached the towering grandeur of an imposing Oxford.

…

Nibs smiling face was not the first thing Wendy saw, when finding herself in the private sanctuary of her brothers' shared room. Nor was it the plethora of dirty, wrinkled ties and shirts—which had surely seen better days—strewn wildly about on the floor. In reflection, however, Wendy would later half-smile at the sight. Her brothers were boys, after all. But no, that which her eyes fell upon first was that of a long white sheet—or rather, a disjointed, long white sheet—that concealed something underneath. Her curiosity overcame the better of her, her senses transfixed by such an unassumingly conspicuous pretence. It was then that she saw Nibs' wide-toothed smile.

"I see that you dressed incognito for the occasion, dear sister. How dangerously prudent of you! Aunt Millicent would certainly be proud—if she actually _knew_, that is," he remarked, that teasing grin never abandoning his present good humour as he caught her shy, smiling face when she removed her hat. He then turned to John, that self-assured expression never faltering, even in the wake of his brother's angered look. "My, my," Nibs mused faintly. "You certainly appear to be in a foul mood, John. Honestly, I should imagine your taking a nightly jaunt on a train to and fro would do you some good, seeing as you rarely, if ever, enjoy yourself after our classes are over."

John glowered at Nibs darkly. "We damn near got caught by Heberden's _lapdog_, Nibs," he groused, a curt shake of his head emphasising his irritation; for to put it bluntly, it had almost been a devil of a time for him to sneak Wendy into the dormitory without being seen by the prying eyes of that snitch of a brown-nose Simon Tumwell—truly, a narrow escape indeed. John nearly scoffed. What on Earth had possessed Nibs to make such a suggestion, as to build a time machine—in their own dormitory, of all places!—when the possibility in being caught was more of a certainty than a probability. It bore little reason. Especially so, since Wendy's presence in the aforementioned dormitory—most especially in the middle of the night, even if her company was only that of her brothers—was strictly forbidden. Dear God, why had he even agreed to such madness? For if they were caught…John could not even dare to begin to countenance the consequences.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he narrowed his dark eyes toward his simpleton of a brother. "Just let us get on with this, so that we can be done with it. I shall not have mine and Wendy's reputations ruined over your carelessness. Pugnose Tumwell is not going to destroy our family with his incessant, vulgar snitching."

Nibs heartily laughed in return, mindlessly brushing John's criticism aside. "Oh, you needn't worry so much about Simon, John. After all, you did say that he _nearly_ caught you and Wendy, not truly caught either of you, correct?" He received a glower for an answer. He made a made a face. "Good gracious, John, you seriously need to smile once and again; your face may become stuck in that perpetual frown of yours, and no girl, in her right mind, shall want you then!"

John opened his mouth to say a retort, but it was Wendy who intervened. Coming to stand between them, she placed the much-needed distance to keep an impending fight at bay. "John is right, Nibs: the time is come at last. Before someone does happen to learn of our intent, I should like to avert such and be on my way."

Her brother could only nod his head in agreement. "Very well, Wendy, for you are right, after all." Turning to John, he cast a glance at the sheet as both brothers came to its side and removed it, that which had been concealed by the prying eyes of man revealed at last. They heard their sister gasp in what was assuredly astonishment, for it was a marvellous work of science, brought to life by the ingenious mind of one, still very much a boy in appearance, and yet as old as some of the college's oldest professors.

"It is…" she began, unable to find to describe the machine before her. For even with the sheet, Wendy had been in awe of it at first sight. Never had she set eyes on something that could shift through the river of time itself, with its golden-brass furnishings and crystal parts. It looked as if it was something from a dream, with its fine, dark-red leather seats—five, to be precise—and its double crystal gears that were fashioned to its front and back. It even had a long, cylindrical device where the months of the year, followed meticulously by a throng of numbers representing days and years, would denote the time in which the machine would take her. It was the machine's main—if not most important—feature, as it took the place of an automobile's steering wheel. Wendy smiled, wholly taken by her brother's accomplishment, its massive framing as intricate and as fascinating as the Minotaur's labyrinth. How Nibs had managed to build—let alone find all of the parts—was something she would, perhaps, never know. But to see it, breathe into reality before her very eyes! It was truly a tribute to science, though even more, to her brother's humbled genius.

She gave him a most tender smile, her eyes full of unspoken appreciation.

Nibs returned the gesture with one of his own. Coming to her side, he took up the small bag she had brought with her, his look as questioning as John's had surely not been. "You are going into the late-Seventeenth Century, correct?" When he heard answer in the affirmative, he chuckled. "I believe that, even with your conservative sense of fashion, you will certainly cause alarm across the English countryside. Hopefully, you will not be believed to be a witch, or even tried as one. I should hate to read in a history book of your being burned at the stake!"

"Nibs!" John shouted suddenly. "For love the God, enough of your stupid jests!" He barrelled across the floorboards, his long strides counterpoising Nibs', for the latter was certainly was shorter in height. He towered over his brother, that nonplussed expression countering his own infuriated one. "I grow tired of your ridiculous nonsense, most especially in your giving cause to worry us needlessly over something you should have considered, long before this moment. For if something happens to her, so God help me, I shall—"

"John, please," Wendy interjected quietly as she placed a consoling hand on a narrow right shoulder, her dark eyes meeting his in tacit reassurance. "I shall be all right," she assured him, her own confidence remaining firmly in her voice. "I have considered the possibility of my not fitting in myself, and yet I am not afraid. James is there, and he will protect me, should harm befall me."

John's look was torn. "Do you have that much faith in him?" he asked brokenly.

Wendy only smiled. "I do. I love him, John, just as I know that he loves me," she said, her hand departing from that now, crestfallen shoulder. She pitied him in the instant. "You must not worry, for my sake. Mine and James' love will pull us though whatever trial or tribulation we may encounter; for just as that love binds us irrevocably, I know that he needs me now. I have to return to him, regardless of how dangerous it may be for me. But again, I am not afraid. I know he is waiting for me, John, and I have to go to him."

Her brother inclined his head in defeat, those worried closed in resignation. "Then go," he finally said, those curtained eyes only opening when he felt her kiss his cheek. He took one of her hands in his, a final, desperate act to keep her a moment more with him in their time. "Go and help him, Wendy. But you must promise me that you will return. No matter what transpires in your time there, you must promise me that you will return to your family. I cannot bear never seeing you again, as I know that Mother and Father—as well as the rest of our family will be heartbroken if you should not return. Promise me, Wendy. Promise me, that you _will_ return."

Wendy returned his desperate stare, silently, thinking, debating, before agreeing. "I promise," she said at last, and she squeezed his hand, a silent affirmation that she would return.

John released her hand. "Better be going," he whispered to her. "I don't think that your captain will be able to wait much longer." He caught a look of what was surely appreciation in his sister's eyes. He had accepted her feelings for a man, whom he still considered to be very much a villain. But if Hook made Wendy happy…then John could not contest the match. How could he deny Wendy anything? Just as he was sure, that Hook found himself in the same, undeniably sweet dilemma that was his sister.

And so, in the final moments of seeing Nibs put her bag into the machine, John relinquished his brotherly hold on Wendy. It nearly pained him to surrender his lifelong duty of enforcing that brotherly protection, but he managed to remain as strong and supportive as Wendy needed him to be. He could not fail her now, as he cried out his pain with a throng of womanly tears. Wendy would not want him to cry, anyhow. Not over this, since such was a happy occasion, filled with a bright hope of a better future. _A future in a most distant past_, he amended quietly, before moving to help her into the machine. He caught her smile and his eyes stung, a single tear threatening to escape. He reached for one of her hands. "Remember your promise," he whispered to her, and released her hand.

Nibs laughed good-naturedly at the tender scene before him. "Of course she will remember, John; you have drilled such into her memory already. I doubt she will forget anytime soon, will you, Wendy?"

Wendy reciprocated his laugh with one of her own. "Do count on it, Nibs," she chimed in merrily, but then tilted her head to the side. "Though before I depart, I must ask you, Nibs: why on Earth did you require so many seats if it was only I using the machine?" She heard him snort. "What can possibly be so funny?"

The former Lost Boys shook his head, clearly amused by her confusion. "And who said that you were to be the only one using this machine, may I ask?" he queried. He nearly laughed when her confusion deepened. "Honestly, Wendy, I have to confess that I was not merely taking your own, personal interests in finding your captain to heart, since I very well intend to use this machine for my own purposes, as well." He cast John a covert look. "Now, we can foresee just what, exactly, shall be on our exams! We shall not have to study or guess anymore!"

John frowned in apparent disgust. "I thought you already _knew_ what was to be on our exams, Nibs," he deadpanned. "For did I not hear you say as much last week?"

Nibs shrugged, nonchalant in his confident demeanour. "I lied," he said simply, before considering Wendy once more. "Now, before you begin to question me on anything else, the machine works simply by holding this lever down"—Here he placed a knowledgeable hand upon a long, golden lever in front of Wendy—"and pulling it toward you. You then set the year, month, and day you wish to travel to. Be precise on that," he warned her, "for you do not wish to visit a time, other than the one you intend. I daresay that you would not want, for example, to be around when over half of England's population is trampled down by the Black Death. The Vikings are not too pleasant of fellows to be cavorting with, either. No, best find your captain, since he is the one expecting you—or not, as the case may be."

Wendy silently nodded, her mind mentally ascribing every word he uttered. She then felt a cold, brass length being placed in her hand. She looked at her brother, questionably, before he made to explain.

"This is your key," he informed her, his own hand guiding hers to a small slot beside of the time turner. He glanced at her, half-hoping that she understood the importance of his instruction. "This is what drives the machine to and fro through time. You must be careful not to lose this; for should you do so…I expect you shall know the outcome if you do happen to lose it." He caught her whispered understanding, and he thus continued. "Excellent. Now, that you understand how everything works, I should expect that you wish to be on your way?" Again, he caught one of her rare smiles, as his own smile brightened. "Just be careful," he told her, before retrieving something from his pocket, and handed it to her. "I have already doused the machine in faerie dust. And as cynical as John is, he might actually say that it is completely _bathed_ in it. _Immersed_, I happen to prefer as a means of definition, but, there you have it. The extra amount in that bag is merely a precaution, should the machine have any…ah…unwanted problems."

John eyes narrowed, suspiciously. "Unwanted problems?" he reiterated.

Nibs gave him an unconcerned look. "It is of no consequence, John, honestly. Truly, if Wendy were to find herself trapped in the past, she would at least be with her captain, and that is what she wants, anyhow. So there is hardly anything to worry over; but the faerie dust is a mere precaution of sorts, should anything untoward happen."

The eldest Darling son appeared mollified, though only partially. Turning to Wendy, he gave her a final glance, his eyes silently saying that she did not have to go through with this. But to his disappointment, Wendy shook her head, a final rejection in her will to stay. Inclining his head, he could only give in, and offer her only confidence in her journey to be successful. "Be careful," he said to her, as he stepped forward and took her into his arms, a final embrace, before letting her go to the one she had already chosen as his successor as Wendy's protector. He considered her face carefully. "Make for certain that, when you find him, Wendy, he will protect you with his very life. I shall not have you suffer the wrath of some spurned, jealous pig of a wife."

Wendy laughed at his cynical remark, and Nibs applauded him. "Bravo!" he clapped. "Well said, John! I daresay I am influencing you already! Jealous pig of a wife! I shall need to write that one down and use it, when next I find myself cornered by my potential bride's mother!"

A dark eyebrow rose in question. "Potential bride?" echoed John, doubtfully.

Nibs grinned, a most devilish smile. "I have yet to ask her, of course—whoever she may be, that is. I have yet to choose one _worthy_ of my affections."

"You are pathetic, Nibs," John returned coolly.

A hearty laugh escaped from Nibs, having thoroughly enjoyed John's disappointment in him immensely. "Not as pathetic as you, brother dear," he teasingly rejoined. "Really, some of our acquaintances already think you very odd indeed, in not having a girl, let alone showing any interest in one. I hazard to say that they are on the verge of deeming you sexless entirely."

John was ready to smash his fist into Nibs' laughing face until Wendy intervened. Stepping once more in between them, she found herself becoming the buffer that, many believed, belonged to the rôle of a mother. "Stop it, the both of you!" she hissed under her breath, lest anyone should hear her. Her eyes cast each of her brothers a withering look, and their heads fell forward, truly ashamed for their behaviour.

Wendy took a step back from them, her arms crossed in obvious irritation. She afforded them a humourless stare. "It is obvious that I cannot leave because of your ongoing, childish bickering with one another. Both of you behave as if you were still children, and not the grown, young, responsible men you should be. How am I to leave and help James, knowing that you shall do yourselves, if not your reputations, a real harm whilst I am gone? Can you think of anything, besides yourselves? God, Nibs, you honestly need to cease in this continued need to goad and antagonise John. And as for you John,"—Here she turned a relentless eye upon her eldest brother—"how can I hope that you will keep that temper of yours under control? You are almost as bad as James with it! What would Mother and Father say, if they knew of your present behaviour?"

_And what would they say of yours_? The question, though unuttered, hung in the air between them. Wendy refused to answer it.

Instead, with a final, loving embrace, she turned her back them, before returning to her seat, her eyes reflecting only hope and light. "I hope the both of you consider what I have said, as I know that, whatever I do at this very moment, will surely hold consequences for my actions. I may suffer from the sting of what society may think of me, for making a claim on a man who is already married, but I am willing to take that chance, as I thank the both of you for allowing me this choice. John," she said, tears now in her eyes, "stay true to your studies, and look after the others for me."

John quietly promised that he would, though he nearly choked on his words.

Wendy offered him one of her brightest smiles, and she bade Nibs, 'To look after _himself_, as well as keeping himself in good form,' to which Nibs readily promised, if only, Wendy secretly believed, to appease her.

"Farewell, Wendy!" Nibs called after her. "Do be sure to bring me back something—a beautiful girl would be quite splendid indeed!"

Shaking her head, she laughed quietly at Nibs' request—typical of him, really—as she flashed him and John a final, enduring smile, before locking the key into place. Her palm rested over its crystal sphere handle, her other hand meticulously setting the date that had remained firmly in her thoughts. With everything in place, she looked once more to her brothers, their twinned expressions urging her to go.

The hand lingering over the time turner lifted, a final farewell, as she turned the key toward her, the dial with the set time beginning to shift. It spun backwards, where a sphere of white-blue light overcame her, if not the machine itself. Wendy nearly screamed, a sudden sense of displacement rising in the pit of her stomach, where time itself and everything she knew to be conscious and real escaped from her senses, her thoughts as blank and empty and devoid as a black hole.

For there, before her brothers, the time machine turned, a soft _whirring_ emitting from its ever-turning gears, until, just as suddenly, as when Wendy had started it, there was a loud, deafening crack, a brilliant shard of white-hot light imbuing the room with its blinding radiance, like light be emitted from a thousand suns, the roar of the time machine almost as sharp and shrill as the light was painful to look upon. John and Nibs fell to their knees, for so great was the force from which the time machine impelled upon them. They clung to each other, holding on for dear life. Neither could tell whether either screamed, for every fibre, every atom in their being shattered against the blinding cacophony before them.

They could not hear, could not see. They dared not raise their heads to look, only felt the need to submit to a force, more powerful than they, stilled their curiosity. For how long they remained in that submissive state of subdued suspension they knew not. Days, hours, minutes, a fraction of seconds, they could only assume—if time still existed, that was. Sight and sound were almost unknown to them, a forgotten memory, lost amid the winding chaos. They had fallen prey to the siren's song, clinging desperately onto the rocks of their subconscious that would surely end their suffering; for as they lingered before the inferno of burning, white-blue light, they prayed for release. For life. For death. For anything. They prayed for what felt like an eternity, until their minds and lips could think and utter their incoherent pleas no longer. They were about to succumb, to give in, ready to shuffle off their proverbial mortal coil.

The light brightened, as if in answer to their considerations, their hopes faltering, almost fading as the sound intensified. Breaking, shattering their every nerve.

The sound reached its peak, a piercing crescendo, and both brothers inhaled with what they believed to be their final breath. This was it. They had destroyed, not only themselves, but their sister, as well—all in the name of science! Or was it love? Damned if either knew, for the pain that they felt was but a fraction to what their parents would assuredly feel. They closed their eyes, half-conscious, half-indifferent. It was over, and they conceded at last to the mind-shattering entity before them. They sighed at what they believed to be their liberation, half-wondering if they were only ones to die this night. They cared little. They cared not; for they smiled, as their closed eyes and they stared Oblivion in the face—an ugly, faceless entity—and they laughed. And then…

Blessed silence.

For as John and Nibs regained their senses, standing from their pitiful positions on the floor, not a moment later, they, with their sight and hearing restored to them, noticed one thing indefinitely.

The time machine was gone, their sister with it.

…

**Author's Note: For any who have read this and are scratching your heads in confusion, this is merely a bit of fun, poking at my very serious work **_**Promise of the Last Kiss**_**. It has nothing to do with **_**Promise's**_** true ending; it is merely a 'what-if' scenario posed by Katherine NotGreat. I urge any who have not read her **_**Unexpected Twist**_** to take a look. This story is actually a response to it, since I could not very well leave poor Hook to such a terrible fate, in being married to a duchess! I find it an interesting thought that Hook is a real, historical person, and not a work of fiction. Such a marvellous idea, in making Hook a duke, belongs to Kate! ;)**

**This first chapter is also one of three parts. I expect to have the next part up, hopefully, very soon. I shall also continue to work on my other projects, as well. I promise: I shall try to soon post a new chapter to **_**A Haunting Reflection**_**, as I am also continuing to work on **_**Promise**_** and a couple of other stories. But indeed, this present story is just a bit of fun, since **_**Promise**_** itself is one of a very dark and serious nature. It is actually nice to write something light and positive for once.**

**Also, I apologise for any grammatical errors. I shall correct anything that I have happened to miss in my first reading of this. Also, too, I apologise for any inaccuracies concerning the history mentioned this. I found contradictory accounts of how many children, exactly, the Duke and Duchess of Monmouth had. I decided to go with eight. But if anyone knows the correct number of children, please let me know, and I shall correct it.**

**Furthermore, the engraving Wendy sees of the Duke of Monmouth in her history book is that of William Wissing's painting of the duke, dated from before 1687. I suspect the painting to be from around 1684. If anyone knows the exact year, please let me know. I would greatly appreciate it.**

**And lest I forget, the time machine itself is based heavily on the one from the 2002 film, with Jeremy Irons. It is a dastard shame that there will not be an Über-Morlock in this, but at least the time machine is here. **

**But truly, I hope everyone has enjoyed this; it is my first attempt at a parody—especially when one that is directed at my own work! And Kate, I most especially hope you enjoyed it, for you were the one for who came up with this most marvellously, thought-provoking idea! Happy birthday! ;)**

**Best wishes,**

— **Kittie **


	2. Chapter II: Entr'acte

Disclaimer: I do not own _Peter Pan_, characters, places, etc. All rights belong to J.M. Barrie. Also, parts mentioned from the 2003 P.J. Hogan film belong to Universal Studios and their respected owners. As for original characters and the plot itself, that _does_ belong to me. Please do not use such without permission.

Summary: A belated birthday gift to my good friend, Katherine NotGreat. After Wendy's return from the extraordinary happenstance that has taken her beloved captain away from her, she comes across a most startling truth. Time machines, swords fights, a host of needful children, and a desperate Hook convince the storyteller to make a journey into Seventeenth Century England to reclaim the man she loves.

An Unexpected Realisation

Caverswall, Staffordshire, England

8th April, 1689

A man of about forty sat at was surely the remnants of a once grand and opulent wooden mahogany desk, his handsome features set into a firm, grim, solemn mask of brooding self-reflection. Books and papers lay scattered about the room, dusty and neglected, and left mouldering among the mouth-eaten carpets and wooden floorboards that supported them. Faded plum-coloured draperies barely hung from their supports, scarcely blocking the depressing scene beyond the cracked windowpanes.

It was raining. It was raining, and there was nothing to be done about it. It was rather fitting, actually. The rain and the thick, grey-clouded skies—so unlike the cloudless-blue heavenly spheres of another world—that reminded one of a world beyond human imagination, and of memories that should, if not needed, to be forgotten.

A pair of forget-me-not eyes—as deep and fathomless as the ocean itself—almost glinted red at the thought, a few wayward strands of curling, wild black hair, mercifully, obscuring the horrendous sight, for a man as dark and haunted as the one who now sat at his grandsire's desk had, perhaps, even the smallest entitlement to move those with hearts of flint to pity. He sighed, forcing the momentary madness aside, a half-empty bottle of wine at his side. He glanced at his silent companion with a note of apathy before he looked down at the mass of scattered papers in front of him, most of which were no longer important—perhaps had never been—from when they had been first drafted. He sighed again.

In all actuality, for if he were to truly consider it, the rain made him consider much—almost _too_ much—since he had been forced back into his rôle as a dutiful husband and father. Oh, yes, the rain was a _wonderful_ reminder of all of the things he had lost, most especially since it forced him to retain a semblance of the good form that he still had, and oh, lest he forget, it also kindly served to remind him that he was _still_, very much, in a godforsaken, backwater part of England.

Confined in Caverswall.

How fitting a punishment.

It had already been three months since he had been abandoned to this decrepit foundation deemed a manor. There was nothing stately or noble about it, either, this crumbling stone ruin that had once been a retreat for one of his great-grandfather's mistresses. He might as well seek refuge under a cliff in the Scottish highlands, than be forced to abide in this hovel a moment longer. But then, he had brought all of this upon himself, had he not? _Everything_ was his fault, apparently. He should accept responsibility for his actions with dignity, as those of his noble blood would have done. _Of course, Grandfather lost his head because of that self-said dignity_, he thought mordantly, a hint of disgust upon that noble-born brow. Truly, some of his ancestors could never take stock of the situation for what it was, for some were so stupid to not acknowledge the truth…

He shook his head, the demons that tormented him in his thoughts returning with a vengeance. It was more psychosomatic than anything, since most of his thoughts were self-imposed by the years of pent-up anger and guilt he suffered whilst away. He had shamed his ancestors, the family name, but, most of all, he had shamed himself. He strove to be more dignified, more refined; he truly did. But damn it all, everything was falling apart around him! And not only his own, pathetic excuse of a life, either…Nothing had been left unscathed by the elements, where even his own grandfather's precious library was but a shadow of its former self. He despaired at the pitiful sight surrounding him, knowing well that his grandfather would surely be rolling in his royal, worm-embedded grave, should he learn of the travesty that had befallen a Stuart stronghold. _He would blame it all on me, of course_, he thought bitterly. _For after all, everything _always_ seems to be my fault_.

He and his children were restricted to the _servant's quarters_. The servant's quarters! It was indeed, as one might say, a melancholy comedown for a man of his status. And yet, such lodgings had assuredly humbled his restless spirit, if only slightly. He still retained his noble-born pride, after all. For the master room, as well as its adjoining rooms, was uninhabitable. There were holes in the roof. Come to think of it, the entire roof needed to be replaced.

"Jas. Hook, thou are not wholly an unheroic figure, art _eternally_ alone," muttered a despondent Hook as he watched the rain without.

The saying that he was looking at a glass half-empty implied a very negative, pessimistic view on life. _Or, at least, that was what I had been told by a very insightful storyteller, _heremarked quietly to himself, almost conceding, almost willing to give in to that sultry voice that inspired only pained moments of enraptured beauty. Perhaps he did look at that proverbial glass in half full. Once. But all the same, he did view it so, if not in a literal sense, since the wine glass before him _was_ only half-full.

The little cretins were surely sent from some vengeful God to torment him for his many, past transgressions; for they were of an unsavoury nature, to be sure. Hook scowled, brooding upon his fate and being forced to accept it. He accepted it willingly, as any man of his station should. Though never had he endured such relentless torture—not even from Pan! His present captors were a hundredfold worse, compared to Pan, and they were _his children_, of all things! It was not to be borne. None of it. He almost groaned at his fettered existence, trapped by the furtive hand of a deceptive woman. He dare not lovingly call that vindictive creature wife. To Hook, she had far outlasted the privilege in such an honourable designation, even if such was aligned with a traitor to the Crown. "Damned monkey of a king on _my_ throne," he grumbled to himself.

Good God, what had he done to deserve this—of all punishments imaginable and otherwise—for what was surely a wrong turn taken in his youth? "Bloody Jacobite of an uncle of mine, that was what," he answered quietly, sardonically. He shook his head and took another swig of his wine, the clotted, maroon dregs leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. Hook grimaced. The wine here was bitter. Everything was bitter. "Just like that noisome wife of mine."

Wife.

There, he had said it. Finally. Albeit the acknowledge did not stir any love or husbandly affection. With Anne, none of it did, since their relationship was more so an agreement, a business arrangement that benefited both sides—or was supposed to, at least in theory. Hook shook his head, wholly regretting his headache. What had he drunk so much, and it being of a poor vintage, too?

Thoughts of Anne were never those of a pleasure nature. In fact, Hook attributed her to something akin to indigestion. Truly. The very thought of his wife made his stomach turn. He could admit, albeit ashamedly, that he had never loved her—not even when he vowed to remain faithful—even when they spoke their vows those many centuries ago. Or was it decades ago? Damned if he was know for sure. He had spent so many wasted years in that children's paradise that the thought of returning to his old life had been nought but a dead hope left in the back of his mind. Only Wendy had ever made anything worthwhile for him—worth giving him a reason to pick up the broken shell of a man who had lost his hand, as well as his dignity, to a child, and make something of himself. Damn it, but he was even willing enough to set aside his vendetta against Pan for her. Oh, how like a girl indeed, to turn his head with such idyllic thoughts of grandeur! It was surely no less than what he deserved. A man like James Hook—or rather, James Scott, as he now was forced to again acknowledge himself—could ever attain that which he sought most in life. It was a dream—a beautiful dream—this his mind conjured. She had been beautiful, so willing, so loving. It was not meant to be.

A resounding crash absolved these dark musings, however, as a plethora of raised voices followed in the wake of some ever-present discord. Hook closed his eyes, his deep-lined face falling into his one good hand in visible despair. They were worse this time around, as he had not the slightest inclination in what the fight was about _this_ _time_. He almost sighed. He had already broken up so many that he now failed to keep count. He groaned out his frustrations in a muttered string of poetic French curses, followed by a heavy swig of bitter red wine. His teeth ground against his nerves, which were so poorly strung together that he could scarcely understand how he remained in a state of composed sanity. He heard another crash—surely in one of the guest bedrooms—as the continued bout in screaming ensued. God. His own dig-bitten crew was never as bad as this. But then again, he would never have allowed such insubordination, since those who questioned his authority usually found themselves shaking hands with his hook.

But these rebel-rousers…were a little more than his lowly band of pirates. For they were much more than that—_so_ _much_ _more_. As they were, after all, of _his_ _own_ _blood_. For they were, whether he wished to acknowledge it otherwise, his children.

_His_ _children_.

Four, to be exact. The number in itself was staggering, considering that he had not the slightest in how to raise them. _The servants and their mother saw to their upbringing_, he thought dryly, his eyes falling upon the rain that spattered against the cracked windowpanes. He would have to replace them, he knew, if he were to make a go at living up to his _fatherly_ _duty_, and look after those whom he had left in the wake of a botched execution. Foolish executioner. The blade had not even struck him. His cousin Anne had, mercifully, seen to that.

But then, he had escaped the executioner's block, only to find himself trapped in a hell deemed the Neverland. And what a _hell_ it had been for him. From his understanding, centuries had passed, considering that…someone dear to him had come from the early Twentieth Century. He had been trapped for the better part of two centuries, ignorant of those closest to him living and moving on, and then, later dying. He had been the last _true_ remainder of his father's legacy, since their blood had been diluted down through marriage and the carrying off of the Stuart name. Not that he himself could carry on his father's name, of course. Bastard children were not often afforded that courtesy, since he had taken his wife's surname for his own.

_That_ _wife_. Hook glowered at the thought of her. She had caused a lot of havoc with her wishing to be with him again. Wishing to be with him again! An iron hook collided against the desk, its sharp tip embedding itself deeply in the rotting wood. He uttered a most unapologetic curse, his regard for the one who 'wanted to be with him again' dwindling to a new, all-time low. Wanting to be with him again! What rot. As far as Hook understood, her heartfelt desire had only lasted for a matter of hours, before she—the harpy he had shackled himself to those many years ago—became, again, the woman he remembered, if not despised and dreaded with every fibre of his being. God, but would he _ever_ escape from her imprisoning hold? Well, there _had_ been the Neverland, and the two centuries' furlough that came with his being trapped there. But still…to escape her hold on him, which strengthened with each passing day, to elude her completely—it was something that James Hook—he refused to acknowledge his former name—wanted more than anything.

She did not love him. Nor, could he say, that he retained such a deep and most sublime feeling for her—not by any stretch of the imagination, by any means. Perhaps he had, maybe once, long ago. But they had been so young then, so innocent and naïve in their convictions of the world. They had been too young—yes, _too_ _young_—to have married when they did. They had been all but children. And now they had children of their own—the second reason for her 'wanting to be with him again'. Oh, yes, what a loving mother she was, to abandon her children in this hovel-deemed-a-home.

Hook could not fathom it. Did she truly despise him so much, to punish their children in the process of hurting him? Did she hate him so much? He had been nothing but faithful to her until…But he cast the thought aside with his hook. Some memories, he knew, were too painful to bear. It was not to be; he had to accept that if he was to move on with his pathetic half-existence here, in this decaying manor. His children needed him, since their mother had made herself scarce in her affections for them. And by his hook, he would be a father to them—the best he could be! Damn it all, but he would be that which ten thousand fathers could only dream of being!

He took another swig from the half-empty bottle. He was hopelessly beyond drunk—rather foxed, if he were to say so himself. He groaned at his impending migraine, the reason for his indulgence evident with every drink he took. But he _did_ mean it—his being a real father, rather. And he would be—after he had another drink.

Downing the rest of the wine, he set the now-empty bottle aside. He gave it a passing glance, his fingers idly tracing its faded ivory paper—wine from Bordeaux—a gift from his father's cousin, who was, if Hook recalled, still very much alive. Such a pity it was that the Sun King himself would not come to his aid. _And why would he?_ thought Hook darkly, _when_ _Louis is supporting my thrice-damned bastard of an uncle? Brothers in the Roman faith through and though, the hypocrites_.

He brooded on his uncle's _good_ _fortune_ in retaining the throne a moment longer before a crash from below shattered his thoughts. He muttered an oath when he heard something shatter—a window, a vase, a priceless family heirloom, who could say for certain?—as a string of voices followed in its wake.

"Oh, no you don't! I shall…I shall tell _him_!" one of them cried out in a sharp shrill voice, one of which Hook undoubtedly knew belonged to his youngest son, Richard.

He nearly flinched at the sound. Merciful God in Heaven, could they not at least have the decency to call him by his paternal title? Why were they so hesitant to call him father? Had he lost all respect and favour in their eyes? He almost looked askance when he heard his eldest son, who was granted his own namesake, speak:

"You will do no such thing! I'm the eldest, and therefore, have the authority over all of you! Do you think that _he_ will save you, when he himself cowered away, like a dog at his own execution? He's nothing like our great-grandfather, who at least had the decency to behave like a king!"

Hook scowled at the remark made by his eldest. Such insolence was not to be borne—not while he still drew breath!—in his household. His melancholy eyes glinted a dangerous crimson, his hook shaking in dark anticipation at his side. It was just offended as he as it called for blood—his _son's_ blood. Dear God, he could not bear to consider it…

Shaking his head, he rose from his seat, the papers and empty wine bottles momentarily forgotten as another concern filtered through his broken mind. He would have to intervene, _again_, and put an end this burgeoning brawl before it got too out of hand. He could not afford to lose another of his ill-begotten issue—not as he had the others. He had already lost half of them as it was…

He was halfway down the stairs when he heard his middle son cry out:

"Brimstone and gall! A pox on of you both, you proud and insolent _scugs_, as _he_ would say!"

The boy's claim was greeted by a disheartened sigh, as another voice—one that both comforted and tormented its father—pleaded for a moment's respite.

"Richard! Henry! James! Brothers, peace, please! You will tear our family apart, if you continue to fight over this ridiculous nonsense."

Hook inwardly sighed. Isabella. What a shock to his nerves, but a voice of reason! She was a most perplexing child, to be sure. A young woman of only seventeen, who had the wisdom of an elder; and from what little time he shared with her already, he knew that losing her to another in marriage would pain his heart, for he _did_ feel a semblance of fatherly affection toward the girl. She almost reminded him of another in temper, as well as in beauty. He frowned at the thought, since the lady in question, unfortunately, was not here for him to make a true comparison between she and his gentle Isabella.

Setting the unhappy thought aside, he considered his daughter instead. He would have to thank her in some way, knowing well that she was the only one who ever considered him kindly, who called him _father_. It was with this consideration that he made himself known to his unruly brood, the scraping of his hook against the wall commanding their attention. He almost smirked when he saw them shuffle, scurrying like frightened mice before a cat. They stood like statues of stone, shards of shattered glass surrounding them. Hook inwardly sighed, a broken window from behind them evidence enough of their crime. For what a sight they were: silenced and humbled before the very man they had mocked and teased only moments before.

He gave them a cursory glance, noting how their eyes were averted to the floor—forget-me-nots, like his—as their dark heads inclined a fraction of an inch lower in recognition. He stepped forward, his grin materialising in full. "I heard a noise, whilst in my study. I trust that everything is in order?" he enquired, fully aware of the broken window behind them. He glanced at his youngest son, Richard, before turning his eyes toward his eldest son. "James, what is the meaning of _another_ broken window? I daresay that 'twould be passing queer for another _bird_ to fly against so _frail_ and _fragile_ a glass. I want the truth, boy."

James, however, remained unapologetically silent. "There is nothing to say, sir," he said, after a long moment.

Hook glowered at him, his impassive gaze darkening. "Nothing to say?" he reiterated. "Nothing, truly? My hook believes there is." He took another step forward, the iron appendage brandished in all its frightening horridity. He regarded his son coldly, those icy forget-me-nots meeting only defiance. He smiled, cruelly. "Do you doubt me, boy? For thou art bold in thy convictions, to be certain. But wouldst thou think it advisable to at least _humour_ the hook?"

Isabella looked up, sheer terror in her eyes. "Father, please," she whispered, bravely stepping forward, a trembling hand falling upon the aforementioned hook. She caught his stare, clearly afraid, but held his gaze. "It was an accident," she murmured gently, as if hoping to allay his internal discord. A few wayward curls—as dark and as fathomless as the midnight sea—falling against those pleading eyes—eyes that were as blue and timeless as his own, yet reminded him of another's entirely.

The hook lowered in the instant. "An accident…of course," was all that escaped from him, before he turned away, his thoughts no longer entertaining the bloodlust it had only moments before. He felt Isabella remain at his side, drawing closer to him.

"Father," she breathed out softly—so unlike her mother—as she took his hand in hers, and smiled when he looked at her. Her beloved father had returned from whatever madness that had plagued him. "There is something that I—or rather, we"—Here she acknowledged the rest of her silent siblings—"need to tell you. James," she prompted with a nod, "would you be so kind as to tell Father what we saw only moments ago?"

James grumbled something unintelligible under his breath. "It was nothing, honestly," he bit out. "She was just a girl in some very strange clothes, wandering around in the woods."

Richard shot him a look. "It was more than that!" he groused. "You didn't mention the thing she was standing next to! And I still cannot believe that we had to argue over not telling _him_ about _it_ or _her_!"

"What _thing_?" Hook found himself asking, though he failed to understand _why_. He merely gave the boy a deciding look, if partly humouring him. "And as for _her_, if such is the case over this…disagreement to inform me, then why hast thou hesitated to aid this young woman? And what of this _thing_ you speak of?"

Henry beamed at his question, wholly disregarding the woman in question entirely. "Oh, but we saw the most striking and alluring thing, whilst walking in the woods today," he told a speculative Hook. "It is…unlike anything I have ever before seen! It certainly outshines that contraption I saw—remember the one that Da Vinci fellow sketched, the one he sent to our great-great-great-grand-cousin, Francis?" he furthered, undaunted when no one encouraged his enthusiasm. "Well, it _was_ better—from what I saw of it, on any count. I wonder what its purpose is."

Isabella gave Henry comforting smile. "Well, whatever it is, I am sure that Father will discover its purpose, as well as to understand why that young woman is wandering about on our property." She regarded Hook with a tender expression. "Truly, Father, I am rather concerned by this young woman wandering about, unaccompanied, in the rain—she looks to be my age, and she is certainly no one I have ever met, or have even seen in town. I don't believe she is from around here."

Hook returned her stare. "It matters not as to how or why this woman—whoever she may be—is here. She will surely find her way—even without our intervention."

His daughter gasped, her eyes widening in disbelief. "But, Father!" she cried out. "We surely, cannot, leave her to the mercy of the woods! And in this rain! It shall be nightfall soon, and we saw her an _hour_ ago. She could still be out there, lost and alone. How can you suggest that we leave her? For is such not considered _bad_ _form_?"

Hook bristled at the suggestion of his being in bad form. Dear God, but this unfortunate revelation was but a blight to plague him, a double-edged sword that could, possibly, reveal him to the world, yet place his form in peril if he did nothing about it; for if this young woman, _lost_ _and_ _alone,_ as she most assuredly appeared, were to recognise him…he would be all but done-for.

But then, to leave her out there, to the mercy of the night and this weather…

He turned to his eldest son, a look of resignation heavy upon his noble countenance. "Tell me where last thou saw her, and I shall go myself, to give aid to this _damsel in distress_."

James half-smiled: a timeless replica of his father's. "We saw her, not too far from the lake. She appeared hesitant to wander too far from that…thing of hers. I daresay that she is, still, likely there."

Hook only nodded at his son's assurance, knowing exactly where to find her. With a soft-spoken command, he issued them to remain at the manor as he took up a lantern and left them to the duty of preparing another room, as well as the family's supper, to which, Hook knew, mortified his sons, since Isabella could not prepare such completely on her own—not for their vast number, at any rate.

"I shall return directly. I expect all of you to be on your best behaviour when our _guest_ arrives," he said, standing in the doorway, his tall frame cutting an imposing figure, his tone demanding none of the rancour he had encountered only moments before.

With a final look at his children, he closed the door behind him, the lantern, unsurprisingly, a much-needed guide against the forthcoming darkness and driving rain. He could only hope that he would find this unfortunate creature that had disrupted his life in all but a single evening. And when he did, he vowed, as he sloshed through the mud, dirtying his already threadbare coat and trousers, he would make her suffer under the worst and most terrible of torture.

He would make her a prisoner—a _servant_—who would wish that she had never ventured into a duke's domain.

_For if I cannot have _her_, then another shall ease my suffering_…

The thought remained with him throughout the rest of the evening.

…

It was nightfall by the time he reached the lake, the lantern his only source of light, since the stars above were heavily obscured by the onslaught of clouds and pouring rain. Hook muttered a curse under his breath, his red velvet coat and matching waistcoat—not to mention the plain linen shirt underneath that—clinging to him like a second skin. Of all the things to force him into the night, and in this weather…Whoever this wench was, he would assure her that she would pay for his ruined attire—not an easy task if the _lady_ in question was a peasant; since, knowing his dire fortune of late, she probably was.

He shook his head, a few wet tendrils lapping wildly against his grim-faced visage. His eyes gleamed with a hint of crimson amid their blue, melancholy depths, his thoughts in terrible disarray. He was still quite drunk, though close to bordering on being sober. He almost regretted his weak indulgence, since it did nothing but give him a most abysmal and wretched headache in the end. _And it wasn't even _good_ wine_, he thought lamentably, before something—a flicker in the distance—caught his eye. He moved toward it, catching something—a movement, he was sure—not twenty paces away. He raised the lantern, his hook at the ready, should there more than a simple maiden. He was half-tempted to speak, to acknowledge that which he sensed, but remained silent. He would not make himself known until he saw this unseen intruder that had dangerously ventured into his lands.

For there, not fifteen feet before him, stood a most peculiar sight. A dark mass of what appeared to be canvas covered most of it, though he could see, if faintly, four golden posts at the bottom. _What in God's name_…he almost uttered, though mercifully held his tongue. Surely, this was the contraption that had captivated his children so.

Setting the lantern down, he continued forward, his eyesight, though proficient during the day, excellent at night. He perceived every shadow, the sound of the wind and the falling rain disregarded completely. Hook paused in his movements when he neared the dark mass. For amid all else, he _heard_ the faint whisper of another human heart. For it was a heart that had been in accord with his own. A heart that belonged to…

He jolted back from the canvas, as if burned, his eyes darkening in wild disbelief. _No, it cannot be. You are fooling yourself, James. Do not fall prey to tormenting yourself so. It is _not_ she_. Glowering, he inwardly cursed his momentary weakness as he stepped forward. He closed his eyes, briefly, his hand falling upon part of the dark canvas covering, his fingers tightening around its wet, enclosed surface. He did not hesitate further, his hook poised for whatever he might encounter underneath the deathlike shroud.

With a violent jerk, he pulled the canvas away, his hook blindly coming forward, as if by instinct, before it suddenly halted when a voice—as familiar and beautiful as he remembered it—said his name. His eyes opened in pained disbelief at the sight he saw. For there she was, his precious Wendy, sitting there, beautiful and innocent—a vision that haunted him in his waking dreams—with his hook at her throat.

Dark eyes, although wide with fear and surprise at first, suddenly countered his with unspoken disbelief. "J-James, is that truly you?" her soft voice carried in the surrounding darkness, fear of the weapon between them shattering the moment.

The hook lowered from her throat in the instant, as, with its master's head. "F-forgive me," muttered an apologetic Hook. "I…I did not think. I…I would never," he mumbled brokenly, but was silenced when a throng of gentle fingers fell upon his lips. He turned to look at her, for he knew that she had already forgiven him. Him! A man who had almost killed her in his blinded madness. He almost collapsed against her, just as her touch, if not her very presence alone, was enough to make him cry.

"Oh, Wendy," he said, pulling her against him, no longer caring about the cold and the rain, even though he vaguely noticed that she had been warm and dry underneath the canvas. But such did not, mercifully, seem to matter to her, since he felt her return his embrace. He pulled her closer, kissing the right-hand corner where her hidden kiss rested.

They held each other for a moment longer, saying nothing in the wake of their happy reunion. Hook had returned the canvas to its rightful place upon the contraption—or, rather, a time machine, as Wendy called it, since she had explained, rather hurriedly, how she had managed to return to him in the first place—before putting his own sodden coat over her shoulders. "I am afraid it is not much, my lady," said he, in a most gentlemanly fashion, as he took up her satchel with his hook, "but I daresay that it shall have to make do until I can afford thee with more comfortable attire. But come along, dear one, we shall return to my manor, where you shall stay at my side, for I've not intention in letting you go again, _ma belle captive,_" he teased, as he took her hand in his and purposefully led her away from the machine that had returned her to him.

Wendy only smiled at his tender-taken jest, taking in the man whom she loved with the entirety of her heart. He had frightened her at first, with his deep-red coat and hook, raised dangerously above his head, before it had descended upon her. In that moment, he had reminded of the man she had both loathed and feared as a child—not the man she had grown to love and care for. She mentally shook her head. It would not do to think of him in such a way, since the man who presently held her, was not Captain Hook, but her beloved James. She smiled at the thought of him, taking in every aspect of him that had compelled her to return to his side.

He had not changed during the many months of their separation, although she noticed a certain hint of weariness around his eyes. She had also noticed the faint smell of wine upon his lips when he kissed her. He had been drinking, and apparently in excess. He would have to temper himself, for she would not allow him to destroy himself—not when she had returned to him—as he had so much to live for…just as there was so much that he needed to know.

It was with this understanding that Wendy said his name and asked that he wait. Hook turned to her, concern in his eyes, as he patiently awaited her. Wendy hesitated, if only for a moment, before she summoned the courage to tell him that which she intended the moment she saw him. "James, my reason for returning to you is because of how I feel for you, but there is something else, something that I _must_ tell you."

Hook frowned, concerned by her sudden upset. "What is it? What is it that you have to tell me, my beauty?" he asked, coming closer, a warm and patient hand resting at her side. "What is it that I must know? Come, Wendy, pray, tell me. I cannot bear this look of sadness."

Wendy bit the lower half of her lip, as if uncertain as to how to proceed with the truth. She shook her head, her eyes solemnly meeting his. "When I was at university, I discovered something—something that concerned you, as well as your family, but mainly you. It was what compelled me to return to you, knowing that I could not let you go on, not knowing the truth about your—"

"Oh, so _this_ is Wendy," a cold voice broke in harshly, its demeaning tone not lost on the one to whom it had directed it.

Hook turned toward his eldest son, disapproval written on his face. "I thought I told thee to remain at the manor, and yet you have the audacity to disobey me. Return home, now, James; we shall discuss this when I return."

James snorted at the harsh reprimand. How dare this man try to put him in his place, and in front of this…_harlot_! "I think not, _Father_," he spat out Hook's fatherly title as he then glanced toward his right, where the rest of his siblings stood, having remained silent and hidden behind the trees all along. He returned his father's frozen stare. "I doubt any of us shall be going home, since we have something to discuss with _you_."

Isabella and the other children joined their brother's side. "Father, what is this?" said his only daughter, a stricken look pervading her soft features. She glanced at Wendy, who was held so protectively—so _affectionately_—in her father's embrace, her pained confusion visible in her eyes. It was enough to shame Hook, for he looked down, the hand which had grasped Wendy's hand so lovingly only moments before loosening in its hold.

"Isabella," he began, unable to lie to his daughter, "I can explain everything, my dear, for this is—"

But James interrupted him. "This is the woman who usurped Mother's place in _his_ heart," he abruptly interjected, a hateful glare directed at Wendy, who secretly flinched at his cold words. "I daresay that she _is_ lovely—quite the beauty, even. She must be an absolute treasure, compared to all of the other _jewels_ you've surely collected over the years. She is probably beyond priceless—surely worth more than our own dear Mother's heart, which was broken in your absence. Oh, yes," he drawled, "surely she is _worth_ more than the woman, who was devoted to your _noble_ _cause_ in attaining _your_ _crown_, isn't that right, _Father_?"

Hook glowered at him. "I do not have to answer for my actions—least of all, to someone such as you, _my son_," returned he, ever the noble-born prince he so inherently was. He nearly cringed when he felt Wendy's hand grasp his arm, a hint of disapproval in her eyes.

"Perhaps we should continue this discussion, inside," she calmly suggested, unable to bear seeing her beloved's _children_ in the rain a moment longer—no matter their disapproval of her. She smiled when Hook inclined his head in agreement, giving in to her request as he again took her hand, kissing it.

James snorted at the display, and he turned to his siblings. "So weak," he muttered to them. "Good God, she's already made a fool of _him_, and now she intends to take over our home and become our stepmother!" He then rounded on Hook, half-ashamed by his father's acquiescence, his anger augmenting at the sight of their joined _hands_. "You're practically besotted with her. Oh, won't Mother be happy, to learn of such _tender_ and most _genuine_ affection, and over such a choice of _lady_, too? It's positively mortifying."

"James," Hook warned, though was cut off by his younger son's amusement.

Completely ignoring his father's displeased glare, a bright-eyed Henry chuckled at his brother's remark. "Oh, indeed, quite right you are, James!" he laughed, taking note of the woman his father held. "She is a treasure, to be sure! But I daresay that Mother got the better of her, despite her beauty, since she remarried and left _him"_—Here he pointed a jovial finger at Hook—"to look after us in that ruin of a mansion, just so she could be alone with that man she married."

Isabella gave him a withering look. "Henry!" she chided, disapprovingly, whilst an angered James scowled at him.

"Fool, you weren't supposed to mention that—most of all, to _him_!" he shouted. "You remember what Mother said: he was not to know, to never find out! And now you've revealed it, damn it all!"

Henry looked down, crestfallen. "Yes, I remember," he mumbled, wholly ashamed that he revealed a most secret truth. He did not have to look up to see the anger that assuredly clouded his father's reserved expression. Nor did he have to wait for the explosion that would follow, for Hook was not one to disappoint those who had kept a most painfully, degrading secret from him.

"Remarried?!" he practically roared, a dark and most terrible rage claiming him in the instant. "I shall show her remarried!" He blindly wrenched himself free of Wendy, his hook rising against some unseen adversary.

"James!" Wendy cried out, attempting to break through the madness that had overcome his reason. Though to no avail, for she watched, helplessly, as her beloved approached his children, the hook remaining in its most deadly position. She watched in horror when Hook's younger sons ran behind their sister, who tried in every way to both protect and give them comfort against the monstrous tyrant that was their father. Wendy shook her head. This was not the man she loved; this was someone else entirely. _Someone else, I had believed long dead_, she thought dejectedly, tears brimming in her eyes, the wind and cold rain compelling them to fall. She held them back, however, when she took a step forward, and once again came to her beloved's side.

Hook, however, paid little heed to her presence, his crimson gaze now fixed upon his eldest son. A rush of blood surged through his veins, the colour—which was claimed by many to be a yellow, sickly shade—pulsing just beneath the flesh. He moved closer, numb to the gentle hands resting upon his good arm. He stared intently upon his son, those blue forget-me-nots quenched of all humanly compassion, for there was no love in those murderous red eyes. "I shall deal with thee and thy siblings accordingly," he said, his voice a shard of ice. "You should not have kept thy mother's betrayal from me."

James glared at him, his stony expression devoid of fear. "Bold words, _Father_," he retorted bravely. "For I'd rather suffer the punishment from which you so cowardly escaped a hundredfold, than to betray the one woman who suffered and sacrificed everything, so that she could see to her children's happiness. I would never betray her, not even to you." He then gave Wendy a pointed look. "And if I had known that it was _she_, who had been so lost and alone in our woods, I would have left her out here. I honestly would not care whether she lived or died."

A resounding _smack_ echoed against the rain when Hook struck his son's face, a vile, poetic curse erupting from a pair of crudely smiling lips. "That was very bad form, my son," said he, lightly, casually, a hint of red in the corner of his eye. "Indeed, I daresay that my hook is much offended by thy conduct."

Wendy paled dramatically at his words, knowing well what his calm demeanour meant. She stepped forward, placing herself in between father and son, her hands boldly restraining the hook at her beloved's side. "No, James," she said to him, her dark eyes countering his red ones. "You are not going to do this—not to your very own son. I will not let you; for your hook shall have to come through me, first, before it does something that we both shall regret." She felt him try to push her away, but she held herself firmly against him. "James, please, just consider what it is that you are about to do! This is not _you_, my love!" she cried out, as it was then the madness in Hook's eyes lifted, the red dissipating, disappearing completely. Wendy hearted at the sight at the return of those forget-me-not eyes.

Hook looked at her, a semblance of recognition overcoming his momentary lapse in sanity. The red in his eyes departed as quickly as it had come, and his head drew down in shame. "Wendy," he whispered, his broken voice returning to the deep, solemn timbre that she knew and loved. He felt her arms wrap themselves around him, a single, fearless hand resting on his hook, which had, only moments before, been on the verge of tearing both in two. He closed his eyes, unable to look at her or his son. And as such, he failed to notice the look of shock on his children's faces. Nor did he notice their timid approach until a gentle Isabella spoke his name.

"Father," she uttered, a soft whisper against the cold wind and rain.

Hook opened his eyes and regarded her open features in response, her timid smile a heartening sight to behold. He returned it in kind, before looking upon his other children. Dismay clouded their previous gaiety, a hint of fear resting their eyes. Hook swallowed, a shard of guilt roiling deep within his heart. He could not bear to see their faces, to see what they truly thought of him. Nor could he bring himself to look at his eldest son, since he already knew of the hatred and spite the boy harboured for him, deep within. He instead turned to Wendy, who out of all who knew him, would understand, would know what to do.

Gazing deep within her eyes, he considered her silent expression, already knowing what he must do. He nodded to her, silently, before acknowledging his children. "It will not do to continue this discussion in the rain. I'll not have any of you succumb to illness, where I might lose a single of you. Let's go home," he said, as he finally looked upon his eldest son, a touch of remorse, so subtle, and yet so clearly visible, if only to the one it was directed, in those sorrowful forget-me-nots. Hook accepted the cold stare he was given in turn; he did not expect anything less from his son, yet the unforgiving coldness directed in that stare lay like a leaden weight in his heart.

Nevertheless, he urged his children on, the small entourage following close behind him. He half-smiled, realising it a victory—however a small one—that his children, for once, were finally listening to him. He could only thank Wendy, for he knew that it had been she, who had given him the strength to take a stand and manage his children. He glanced down at her, offering her a smile. His face brightened when she returned the gesture, a bright look in her eye as she allowed him to pull her even closer to his side, their hands joined in silent accord.

Isabella and the others followed closely in behind where even James—whether he wished to acknowledge or not—followed in his father's footsteps, grimly noting how, again, his bastard of a sire clung to the woman who had torn their family apart. He glowered at their joined hands, hating Wendy and all that she represented all the more, a deep thorn embedded in his chest.

He glowered at Wendy's retreating figure, half-aware that he wished that she had not existed at all. And yet, he realised, to his disappointment, that it had been _she_ who had saved him. She, who had stilled his father's anger before it could be exacted upon him. She was even willing to put herself in danger, in order to protect him—him, a complete stranger, if not blight upon her love for the man that he and she both had a claim on—from his father's wrath. He failed to understand how she had managed to assuage his father's anger, for James had heard stories of the man who had once captained a pirate ship. He not so naïve as to believe that his father had been above murder; he knew that Hook had committed acts, more detestable, even beyond that. And yet, this woman, this mere slip of a girl, had braved a tempest that few—if any—survived.

James shook his head. It made little sense to him, though he could admit, if only to himself, that the woman—whom he despised for taking his father's heart away from his beloved mother—was something of a rarity—something, now, he could see to which his father had inevitably been drawn. He still hated her; that much was certain, but he would, at the very least, confess that there was something intriguing, if not magical about this woman, who had apparently crossed both time and space to find his father. There was just something about this young woman, this _Wendy_. Something, he surmised, that he would have to discover for himself.

Thus resolved, the eldest Scott son continued on, as he followed in behind Isabella, who, like he, would attain the answers he sought. It was only a matter of time before he would have them—the moment they entered their sham of a home and dried off, that was.

…

When they finally reached the manor, everyone made to dry themselves by the roaring fire Isabella had made before she and her brothers snuck off to follow their father. Hook had automatically sent the younger children on to their rooms, issuing that they dress and go on to bed, to which Henry and Richard did, knowing that they had no wish to be party to the inevitable punishment their father would impart on their older siblings. For Hook indeed bade that James and Isabella stay, no matter their waterlogged clothes and tired expressions.

"This shall not take long," he assured them, having no wish to cause either of his children further discomfort, even if he somewhat felt that they deserved it—especially his son. As such, he was brief in his explanation, as he took his coat from Wendy and replaced it with a blanket, urging that she take his chair, next to the fire. His hardened gaze softened at her smile—a smile that was not lost on his children.

Isabella looked down, timidly, whilst an impassive James baulked at the loving exchange. Really, it was as if no one else in the world existed, except the woman whom his father appeared so enamoured by. But then, even soaked and pale, the creature his father apparently loved was no less than lovely. Her beauty even rivalled his mother's—perhaps even surpassing it. James scorned the very thought of it, for he count understand why she had left him, as well as his other siblings, here in this decaying ruin with a man they barely recognised as their father. He had been young—barely fourteen—when his father had been tried for treason and executed. A man, he knew, was still in his thirties and, to his memory, still in the fullness of youth, as the man before him was anything _but_. For if this man was indeed his father, and he had yet to prove otherwise, then the man had aged considerably in his time away. The hook was an added disgrace, a final insult to a family with an already tarnished name.

And now, after a failed campaign to acquire the crown, this man—one James had yet to consider a true father—was caught by a girl, twenty years his junior. James scowled at the sight of them. Indeed, his _father_ had better damn well explain why he allowed the source of his mother's pain into their sham of a broken-down home. He caught Hook's eye, and silently bade him to explain.

Hook did not disappoint him, either, for he explained the truth in which neither of his children knew. He told them of the moments before his _execution_, of how his cousin Anne had come to him in his cell and gave him a potion. "A tonic to ease the nerves and dull the blow of the axe, she had said," he furthered. "I took it, of course, although I did not realise it actually an escape, at the time," he added, a little ruefully, before continuing. "I could not even feel the axe, even though I knew my executioner tried, time and again, to sever my wilful head. It felt as if only air fell across the back of my neck, and then, after the eight or so time, everything disappeared around me…" He shook his head, his composed countenance revealing a hint of the confusion in his voice. "I cannot explain it; but, from that moment on, I found myself transported far away from that horrid execution block, far from England itself—into a world that I had never before seen."

He regarded his children quietly. "I soon found myself placed into a position of being a pirate's bo'sun. I daresay none of you would know him, since he is not…from this time. It is a very long and confusing story, to be sure, but one you deserve to know, no matter what thy mother has told thee of me."

And Hook continued, furthering his story of how he came to be a pirate and captained his own ship. He spoke of the Neverland and its inhabitants, including Pan, which he grudgingly commented on in passion mention. He then came to how he had met Wendy, of their first meeting, and of their strange relationship, which had transpired over a matter of years. He told them of how he had believed them dead, since Wendy herself hailed from a different century altogether, and how he, having lost his family, and being unable to return because of the Neverland's hold on him, found himself comforted by her presence. He then took her hand in his, finding it impossible to continue without her most-comforting touch.

"For you must understand," he persisted gently, "that she was the one good thing that had happened upon my miserable tenure there—the only thing that gave me a reason to continue living." He gave her a most tender look. "Just as I daresay that she is, perhaps, the only person who saw what little good was left in me, and decided to save it—if not endure my constant change in mood."

Isabella laughed at the latter remark, already accepting the story as she would the most concrete truth, since she, herself, questioned her mother's motives. She smiled at Wendy, who returned the gesture in kind, and gave the storyteller a most assuring look. "Our father has suffered much," she said, giving a short glance to an appreciative Hook. She offered Wendy another smile. "And as such, I believe that your presence here is, indeed, most welcome—not only by my father, but by us, as well. I do hope that you remain here, with us, during the duration of your stay."

Wendy's dark eyes brightened at the warm greeting Isabella offered. "It would be an honour," returned she, most sincerely. "I should be glad to remain with your family."

Isabella clapped her hands together. "Excellent!" she exclaimed, truly happy that her offer had been accepted. "I shall prepare a room for you, then. And, in the morning, after we break our fast, I shall give you a tour of our home—that is, if you do not mind, Father?" she asked, turning a careful eye to Hook, who, simply indulged her enthusiasm. "Thank you, Father!" she said, and then turned again to Wendy. "Our lands here are quite vast, but I am sure that you will not mind the walk. Indeed, I feel that we shall much to discuss!"

With this, Isabella bade Hook and a broodingly silent James good-night, before taking up Wendy's satchel and giving her one last smile. "I shall prepare your room now. I hope that you do not mind one, next to mine. It is far more comfortable in the servants' quarters, since the family rooms are in disrepair." She then frowned at the satchel in her hand, which surely contained a stack of wet clothes. "I shall also set out one of my nightgowns for you, since I believe you and I to be one of the same size." She then beamed at the thought, but refrained from speaking the thought which came to mind. She would leave it for another day, since there was much to be done already.

With a final good-night, Isabella departed, leaving only her father and brother to look after their most unexpected guest. James stood next to the fire, his silence a dark, impenetrable force. Hook shook his head, just as the storm without, matched his mood perfectly.

"James," he began, using his son's name for the first time since their return home, "I know what it is that you must surely think, about Wendy and I, but—"

"You know nothing about what I must think," James cut in abruptly. "Good God, I know not what to think of this—_any_ _of_ _this_, at all." He made a face, his eyes clouding over in tangible disbelief. "I still cannot bring myself to believe that you lived, and the story that you told us…I cannot bring myself to believe that, either. I cannot believe any of it, honestly, just as I feel that it would have perhaps been better that you had died, than Mother having found you in some godforsaken children's land."

Hook said nothing in response, but instead took in his eldest son's words. Perhaps it would have been _better_ if he had faced the executioner's axe, instead of escaping it. It almost pained to admit it, but he understood how he had disappointed his son—how he had disappointed all of his children. He opened his mouth, but then closed it when he saw James leave the room without a word. Hook frowned after his son's retreating steps. The captain in him did not attempt to stop James; he could not even summon forth the effort to enforce such a fatherly demand. Instead, his eyes fell upon Wendy, a trace of uncertainty lingering in their dark-blue depths. "He despises me," he muttered, half to himself, and then felt Wendy take his hand in hers. She placed a sweet kiss, full of understanding, on its roughened back, and she smiled.

"He needs time," she responded gently, assuringly, those dark eyes full of certainty. "I did not think of your children's reaction to me, but my arrival…was too much for him, James," she said, thoughtfully, and she shook her head. "When I learned the truth of what your wife had done, I could only think of returning to you, for she had done you a most terrible wrong. But in spite of my good intentions, I did not realise the pain I would visit upon your children." She looked at him, her sorrowful expression full of shame and regret. "I never wanted to hurt anyone. I just wanted…"

"Shhh, I know, dear one," Hook whispered, and he took her into his arms, comforting her, in spite of his sodden clothes crushing against her now-dry ones. He kissed the top of her head, revelling in the feel of her, so close to him, her warmth absolving the coldness and hatred, welling up inside of him. He could scarcely imagine how he had survived all of this time without her, and he cursed his wife's name all the more. She would regret hurting him so—hurting _their_ _children_ so, since their children were the only good thing that had come of their marriage.

Their marriage.

He had the grace not to snort at that most reverent notion. For as far the courts were concerned, they were no longer bound by their vows, let alone in the eyes of God, which meant…

He almost laughed at the realisation, and he smiled into his beloved's hair. "There is no need to worry over anything anymore, _ma belle_," said he, and he looked at her with what appeared to be unspoken delight. "There is nothing to worry about, at all, since it seems that Anne's betrayal of me is more so a blessing than a curse."

Wendy frowned at him. "What ever do you mean, James?"

He barely had the strength not to smile at her confusion. "That bigamist of a cow has already bound herself to another—even if such had transpired, however innocently, during my apparent _death _—since she has now made our marriage void; we are no longer bound to each other. I am _free_, Wendy."

"Free," Wendy reiterated. "But that means…"

Hook grinned at her sudden realisation. "Exactly," he heartily confirmed, and he kissed the back of her hand. "I can choose another for my bride, another with whom I can share my life. Wendy," he broached, taking her hands more firmly into his one good hand, his expression serious. "I have never wanted anything more than this, for you know what it is that I ask of thee."

Wendy heartened at the implication of his words, and her smile widened, her dark eyes brightening in apparent happiness. But then, all too soon, that radiant image dulled, fading to a face devoid of hope. "I know what it is that you propose, but I cannot accept—not now, anyway," she murmured, pained when she saw his face fall. "I am sorry, James, but I cannot marry you—not when your children would be hurt in the process."

"Wendy," Hook tried to intercede, his hand tightening in his grip around hers.

She pulled away from him, turning an uncertain gaze to the fire. "It was a mistake to even come here," she muttered with a shake of that dark head. "I cannot stay here a moment longer. I must leave at once." She barely heard a resounding crash in the background as Hook displayed his sentiments in her imminent departure.

"I hear none of it!" he roared in retaliation, his hand claiming hers once again, though more forcefully. He pulled her toward him, forcing her to look up, to acknowledge him. Her shocked expression made him hesitate.

"James, what on Earth are you—" Wendy tried to speak, but was cut off by a desperate Hook.

"Don't tempt me with your notions in abandoning me because of some momentary lapse in conscience. I daresay that you shall quite finish me off if you do. You cannot leave me, Wendy—not when I need you here, with me!"

A soft, almost reluctant sigh escaped from Wendy, the storyteller in her wanting nothing more to ease his pain, to say _yes_ to his proposal, and thus stay with him forever. She closed her eyes, almost willing to sacrifice her conscience and stay. _You have one month_, the voice of a confiding Nibs broke in, and Wendy opened her eyes. "I shall stay," she found herself say, and she saw a small flicker of hope in his eyes. Her heart ached at the sight of it. "I shall stay with you and the children, James, since I know that you have no one here to help you. But I can only stay for a month and no more."

A dark eyebrow rose in disbelief. "A month?" Hook echoed, incredulously, and then shook his head. "A month, dear one? Oh, no, 'tis completely out of the question. A month is nothing, since I've no intention in letting you go ever again, Wendy Darling."

Wendy stared at him, nonplussed. "But it is all I have," replied she. "I promised my brothers that I would return after a month; it is all the time I can afford before Nibs' time machine loses its magic completely."

Still, her beloved remained unconvinced. "A month, you say?" he questioned with a grin, a dark and most sinister thought already coming to mind. Wendy almost shuddered at the sight of his kind expression. "Very well, _ma belle_, I shall let you return to thy family in a month, but be forewarned: I shall try in every endeavour to have thee stay. I shall not give thee up so easily."

Wendy could only return that insidious grin. "And I would not expect any less from you," returned she, as she made to retire for the night. "But we shall continue in this discussion tomorrow, since I know that both you and I need rest after this most eventful evening."

Hook beamed at her suggestion in retiring for the night. Without a further word, he led her away from the foyer, up a flight of dirty marble stairs, down a set of darkened corridors, and, finally, to her room. A curtain of light danced underneath its closed door, and Hook opened it, already knowing that Isabella had already made the guest chambers—for what was intended as a guest's chambers, at any rate—presentable for Wendy. "I trust that everything will be to your liking," he whispered, fully aware that the manor was _anything_ but to someone's liking. But, knowing Wendy as he did, he knew that she would not look down upon his misfortune, since it was all he could afford. And Wendy had not disappointed him, for she gasped at the sight of her newfound quarters.

"Isabella has outdone herself," Hook commented gently from behind, truly admiring his daughter's work; she had even used her own coverlet to ensure that Wendy would have something warm to sleep under for the night. "You shall quite happy here, I am sure."

Nodding gently, Wendy turned to face him. "I have no doubt of that," replied she, truly touched by Isabella's gesture, for she knew that she and the girl were, relatively, of the same age, and apparently had no reservations in Wendy's feelings regarding Hook. "She appears to approve of my stay here," she said, half in thought.

"That she does," Hook agreed mildly, before glancing at his room, just down the hall. He considered it, briefly, before looking at Wendy. "Thy room is lovely, to be sure, but you could reside elsewhere. You could…stay with me," he offered quietly, lest any should hear him.

Amused by his caution, Wendy only smiled. "Already you are trying to tempt me into staying, James," she returned in an equally soft whisper, that smile of hers never faltering, her eyes revealing her answer. "Indeed, I am half-inclined to agree without cause or consequence, since it reminds me of our time on your ship, but you know that I must decline in your most generous offer. I cannot, in good conscience, stay with you, when I know that it would hurt your children even further."

Hook grimaced at her words. "But your rejection hurts me in turn," retorted he in a grim whisper. "How can I fain dream the dreams that I often yearn to dream, when I know that thou art not but three doors down from me? You tormented by your absence; and, now that you are here, you torment me still by your refusal to stay. Good God, woman, how you torture my poor, cold black heart so! I daresay that I shall never wish to know love again. Can you not understand how be separated from you pains me?"

"And such a most unwanted feeling is shared, my love," Wendy assured him, her gentle hands coming to the sides of his face, those curious fingers tenderly smoothing away the frown that had been so deeply embedded on his noble brow. "I long to be with you, but I cannot, knowing how your children's mother hurt them so. I want them to trust me, James, and I know that I cannot have that unless they know that I was not the reason for driving you and the duchess apart. And perhaps it is the mother in me, but I want to be someone in whom they can confide. I want to be there for them, just as I was for my brothers when they were still Lost Boys. I cannot imagine how alone they must be, without their mother here." Again, she shook her head, her gaze locking with his. "She has done them a terrible wrong, by leaving them here. But you, James, are their father, and they need you. They need you so greatly."

"Wendy," Hook attempted to interject, but she hushed him.

"No, James, they _do_ need you. They need a father, since I doubt that they have had one—a real one—since you disappeared, and I highly doubt that their _stepfather_ has been one to willingly assume that fatherly title in their lives." She inclined her head, catching a hint of red in his eye. "Yes, James, I am sure that you do not wish for Lord Cornwallis—for that is the fellow's name, to whom the duchess has attached herself—to assume your place in your children's lives. They need your approval, James, just as they need your patience—for you do have it, my love—as well as your understanding. But most of all, they need your love; and you have it, James. You do, most sincerely have it."

A moment of silence followed in the wake of her words, since neither dared continue to speak. Minutes passed in the dark hallway, where the captain and his storyteller stood together in the wide expanse of un-thought-of possibility. And it was as such that, after another moment of silent reflection, Hook inclined his head, a few wayward strands of ebony falling upon his blackavised visage. "Then I shall endeavour to be both the father and the gentleman that you so irrefutably believe me to me, Miss Wendy Darling." And for the second time that night, he took one of her hands and placed a most gentlemanly and chaste kiss upon it. "I shall be everything that desire of me, for I shall not disappoint you or my children, as I so desire to again be part of my family—with _you_ at mine and my children's side."

He received a quick kiss on the lips for that most ardent declaration, before Wendy, in almost coquettish fashion, bade him good-night, as she shut her bedroom between them. She missed her beloved captain's chagrined look, for Hook was, indeed, rather exasperated by the door barring him from that which he desired most in the world: a certain storyteller, who had a penchant for confounding him to no end. And yet, as with most stories, neither of the lovers realised that they had been watched all along, for Hook and Wendy had not been alone as they so innocently believed, as four sets of eyes had watched their every movement and heard every word exchanged. They even heard the profane list of French curses that their father uttered when he, himself, retired for the night—in the coldness of his own chambers, completely and undeniably alone.

Not a word was spoken, only silence prevailed as Hook's children retreated to their own, respective rooms with much to consider, regarding their father and newfound guest, as such would weigh heavily upon their own dreams for many nights to come.

…

Over the course of the next few weeks, Wendy found herself placed in a routine of habitual intrigue. For after that first, tempestuous night in meeting Hook's children, had she found herself becoming close to them. It had taken her a few days to win the younger two of Hook's brood over, surely, since Hook had, in no uncertain terms, threatened their very existence, should they ever upset Wendy in any way. It was a threat in which none of his children took lightly—not since that night when they had found Wendy, lost in the woods—since they knew of their father's temper.

But it was their love for her stories that had truly brought them over, bit by captivated bit, to her side. They were intrigued by her stories of pirates, and faeries, where even Peter would make an appearance in some of her stories, much to Hook's displeasure. They were most especially fascinated by the stories she told of the pirates and how Hook—their very own father—had captained a ship loaded with them.

"Once, he had even forced me to walk the plank, since he believed that I was his enemy's greatest weakness!" she had told them one evening, to which the boys happily cheered until they realised that it was _Wendy_ who had nearly met her end by the gaping jaws of a most hungry and terrible crocodile. They had then confronted their father on the matter, to which Hook grumbled an _apology_ to Wendy, and all—as far as Henry and Richard were concerned—was forgiven. They had acquired a greater respect for their father, and were thoroughly enchanted by the young woman whom they now considered part of their warring family.

As such, they followed her almost everywhere. For like an extra pair of shadows, Wendy discovered how much Henry and Richard reminded her of her brothers at such an age. They did not call her Mother, and nor did she expect it of them, honestly, but she found that she enjoyed how they remained, constantly by her side.

In truth, she could also say the same of Hook's only daughter. For Isabella, who had every right to question Wendy's place of her father's side, had only welcomed Wendy with open arms, albeit with a touch of uncertainty. The young woman's misgivings, however, dissipated when she and Wendy grew closer in the days after Wendy's arrival. In all appearances, they looked the same age, even though, in all actuality, Isabella was a good three centuries older than Wendy. But such, apparently, did not matter, since they connected on levels in which only women their age _can_ connect. Even Hook failed to understand his storyteller and daughter's connection, though he never discouraged it, since he merely smiled at the long hours the two women his heart held would share with one another.

For in the days that passed, Wendy and Isabella shared in the housework, whilst they toiled away during the long hours of the day cooking and discussing their favourite hobbies—many of which both shared an equal interest.

"_For I greatly enjoy attending university," said Wendy one day, half-surprised to note a gaping Isabella._

"_You attend…university?" the wide-eyed girl asked, wholly transfixed by the very prospect._

_Wendy had only nodded her head in deft assurance. "The right for women to attend has only been enforced recently. But yes, I attend Cambridge, whilst my brothers, John and Nibs, attend at Oxford."_

"_Your brothers?" Isabella broke in suddenly. "You have brothers?"_

_The storyteller smiled. "I have eight, in fact, though only two are related by blood; the rest, Mother and Father adopted when we returned from the Neverland for the first time," she said at length, half-amused by the wistful expression on her companion's face._

"_How I should love to attend a university! Oh, what I could do there." exclaimed a very thoughtful Isabella. But her pensive look soon shifted into a look of regret. "But I am afraid that I cannot, concerning, well…everything. I doubt that even Father would consider the idea of it."_

"_I am sure that he would consider it, Isabella," Wendy said earnestly. "Your father is a good man, and would surely want that which would make you happy."_

Isabella had half-smiled at the kind assurance, though said nothing more on the subject as she instead chose to question Wendy on the matter of such a large family with which Wendy had been blessed. The course of their discussion remained on each brother for a solid hour until Hook, unable to bear a moment more without his storyteller, bade Wendy to join him and tell him a story, for having exhausted himself by his younger sons' wild excursion of _hide_-_and_-_seek_ completely.

Wendy, half-reluctant to leave, could only give Isabella a regretful smile, silently promising to continue their discussion when Hook was further distracted. She then joined a rather impatient Hook, taking sheer pleasure in his company, though the memory of Isabella's excitement over attending university and the expression on her face never, quite left the Wendy's thoughts, as she continued to think of their exchange, even during the time spent with her beloved.

She could not necessarily say the same for Hook's eldest son, James, who had been the most reluctant, in not the most critical to welcome her among their makeshift family. It had taken him a full week to acknowledge her, and another to even speak to her. But when he had…Wendy still recoiled at the memory of it, for she remembered his words all too clearly…

"_You look lovely, Miss Darling," he said as they caught themselves together under and old oak tree._

_Wendy flushed heavily at the compliment, though she maintained her composure. "Thank you," she said in response, still unsure of what to address him as, since none of the other children had issued her to call them 'my lord' or 'my lady, though they very well were within their right to enforce such upon her, considering that their father had once been a duke himself. But still, none of them, not even James, had ever, once, made her feel herself to be lower than they; they, in truth, treated her as an equal to their father._

_But James had, evidently, not finished in his praise of her, for he continued on, much to Wendy's discomfort. "Oh, there is no need to thank me, Miss Darling, since I know that any man with eyes would also see the truth of such for himself. You are indeed beautiful—a true sight to behold, as 'tis such a sight that my father does not deserve."_

_Wendy frowned at him, her confusion visible in his eyes. "Pardon me?" she enquired, half-taken by surprise by the young man's audacity._

_James regarded her without preamble. "You understood me perfectly," said he. "My father does not deserve you, Miss Darling. For indeed, I shall now admit that I was wrong in assumptions of your trying to take our father away from us—not that he was much of a father before you came, to be sure—but you didn't. You wanted him here, with us, instead of going back with you, to whatever time it is from which you come." He looked at the ground for a moment, before again catching her gaze. "I never wanted to believe it, but you are the opposite of what my mother said you were. She had claimed you a heartless witch—one who only thought of taking our father away from us. But now I see the truth, as I understand why my father had no wish to part from you."_

_A semblance of what could not be anything but appreciation burned in Wendy's eyes, where again, she thanked him, though her gratitude was premature. For in the course of a split-second, did Wendy find her hands caught by those of a version of their father's. Wendy stared at James blankly, her vacant expression one of pure, unadulterated shock. _

"_What are you—" she began, but was cut off by a swift kiss to her lips._

_It lasted for only a moment, but was enough to instil a sense of disgust in Wendy. Was this how her beloved's son saw her? Merciful Heavens, did he not realise that her heart already belonged to another, to his _father_? She had little time to consider the enormity of the situation when she felt her ardent pursuer wrenched away._

"_What in God's name is going on here?" a very familiar, very angry voice questioned._

_Wendy gasped, when she looked upon the face of her beloved James, whose grave expression, she noted, was anything _but_ loving. She tried to place herself—as she had once before—in between father and son, but found herself swept carefully away to the side. "James!" she cried, trying to offer reason, but unable to gain his attention, since his eyes remained firmly upon his son._

"_I thought I'd made myself clear, in our respect towards our guest," said he, mordantly. "I had even allowed myself to foolishly believe in thy sincerity regarding her sensibilities. But this travesty…What hast thou to say of thy conduct, boy? What of _thy_ form?"_

_James, however, remained deathly silent, his clenched hands his only response. "I can say nothing of my form, but of _yours_, _Father_," he spat, his eyes falling upon Wendy, and knowing that he was already defeated. "You could have had any woman, but you chose the purest, most earnest of them all. _Why_, Father? Was Mother not good enough for you? Why choose a young woman, free and innocent of the world, _halfyourage_?"_

_Hook visibly flinched at the question, and he took a long, thoughtful moment to speak. "I never intended to leave thee, thy siblings, or even thy mother that day," he answered quietly, the rage in his eyes disappearing within the instant. "I had tired, oh, so many times to return home, but could not. I was lost for centuries, lost in my own madness until a merciful storyteller came and visited me in my hell." He looked at Wendy then, with only love in his eyes. "I never believed that I would find happiness again after losing all of you. I had honestly believed that part me had died along with you until a certain _Wendy_ showed me otherwise." He caught her silent look, realising that his feelings were requited. "I never expected to find love again, and certainly not in a woman, whom I had met at the tender age of twelve. I never believed that such a child would grow into a woman who rivalled the very of my crew."_

_James soon apologised for his actions, although a part of him still questioned how his father could have that which he could not, and how a woman, as lovely and innocent as Wendy, could ever find it within herself to love a man who was as old and repulsive as his father. James realised that he would never know the answer, not in full, since he, himself, had never been in love, though he liked to think that Wendy could have possibly been the one to have shown him that most universal and everlasting sentiment._

For Wendy's love for Hook was known, if not accepted—with the exception of James, perhaps—among his children. They often turned a careful eye at one another, when in Wendy and their father's company, a quick smile, and a secret knowledge that all of them shared, for they knew that their father and Wendy tried to hide it from them, believing that they needed to 'think of the children first' before thinking of themselves. In truth, Isabella and the others wanted anything but to be thought of first; they wanted to see that which they had long suspected, come into fruition, since it was on a most pleasant Sunday afternoon—after restoring their home to a level of what it had once been, and still, could be—that the children found themselves basking in the warm, afternoon sun underneath an old oak tree that their great-grandfather, Charles, had commissioned to have planted, an April wind teasing their hair and faces when they saw that their father and Wendy decided to join them.

"I hope that do not mind our joining you," Wendy said, a little timidly. "It is such a lovely day."

Isabella offered her a kind smile, whilst Henry and Richard, who had yet to pull another _good-natured _prank on their father, urged her to sit by them and tell as story. Glancing at Hook, she took him freely by the hand and bade him sit down beside of her, where, of course, Hook could only comply, since he did everything in his power to keep his storyteller happy, if not to keep her with him—indefinitely. James stood against the tree, wholly indifferent by the exchange.

Hours had passed, as the afternoon drifted into the evening, the sun setting in the distance. Hook lingered close to Wendy, though refrained from touching her, let alone claiming her hand in an innocent token of love. And his children saw his restraint, his hesitation in openly showing his affections wearing on their remaining nerves. It was then, when a very cheerful Isabella came close to Hook's side, that she whispered, rather loudly, that Hook take Wendy's hand. "A young lady happens to appreciate the many kindnesses afforded by her host.

Hook looked at his daughter, as if he had been thrown by a horse. "Isabella," he warned, knowing full well that Wendy, as well as the rest of his children, had heard Isabella.

Isabella remained firm in her convictions, regardless of her father's disapproval. "Truly, Father, you must know that a lady such as Wendy would be honoured if you held her hand. In fact, a lady such as Wendy would _want_ it."

Henry and Richard seconded their sister's suggestion, although they giggled and teased their poor father into humiliation, before, finally, he gave in to their heckling and took Wendy's hand into his one good one. "There now, art thou satisfied, my brood of ungrateful and unruly children?"

He received no for an answer.

"You must kiss her, too, Father," asserted Henry.

"Yes, Father, you must kiss her, here, on the cheek, since ladies tend to want their…ah…host kissing their cheeks," Richard added happily.

Hook gave both of his sons, who had only thirteen and five years' experience shared between them, a withering look. He almost groaned when he heard the others, Isabella and, most surprisingly, a partially amused James, support their younger brothers in this wild endeavour. He looked at Wendy, wholly defeated by a barrage of relentless children, and desiring nothing more than to escape from his _enemy_, since such an escape was by one way alone: through Wendy's _kiss_.

And whilst Hook and Wendy, who could only concede to their _captors'_ wishes, drew close to one another, their faces only a breadth apart, their lips barely touching, barely kissing and tasting what would surely be Heaven, that reality came crashing down heavily upon them in a fatal instant. For there, standing in the shadows, almost unseen, was one, wholly unimpressed by the sight of two lovestruck hearts.

"My, my, what have we _here_?" a soft, sultry, yet very much refined, feminine voice drawled out, her cold gaze falling upon Wendy, as a smile, as venomous and deadly as a viper's revealed the poisonous amusement of one, whom Hook himself considered an ever greater adversary than Pan himself. For the one before him was one he desired to forget and never think of again, as he, to his regret, stared upon the cold and deadly, if not beautiful face of the Duchess Anne, his wife.

…

**Author's Notes: Ooh, cliffhanger! And a rather naughty one, at that, I dare confess. But it had to be done, truly. Really, I just couldn't resist, since this last segment has been in my thoughts for a while now. Bringing in Anne at the end was just something that **_**had**_** to be done, since she always tends to ruin the perfect moment for our most unfortunate lovers in these parodies. **

**Nevertheless, here is Part Two of Three. I daresay that I shall, hopefully, have the last segment written and posted, sometime, very soon. Really, I cannot wait to see what transpires between Hook and his…ah…former wife. But even more, I cannot wait to see what happens between her and Wendy! Now, **_**that**_** should be something of interest.**

**I also have to say that the last part will probably be as long as these first two chapters, since I have intention in writing an epilogue. Really, I do not think this story, in particular, needs one. **

**Oh, and before I forget, I did, whilst trying to remain true to history, choose to alter the Duke of Monmouth's children's ages a bit. In this story Isabella is around seventeen, whilst James is around eighteen. In reality, James was about fifteen in 1689, and Isabella…well, I could never find an actual date of her birth. My apologies for that, but I simply could not find anything concerning Monmouth's children in any history book or even online, which was a complete pain in the backside, to be sure…**

**As for any grammatical errors on my behalf, if I missed any—which I probably, most assuredly, have—I shall correct them accordingly, since they are a veritable thorn in my side. They are almost like cockroaches in a way…but, without the nasty yellow stuff in them… o.0; **

**And, by the way, Kate, I do hope you enjoyed this little in-between segment, since the last part…will be best saved with a certain quote you mentioned! I daresay that Hook shall probably say it, and rather dryly, too, I might add! (Grins.)**

**Well, until the final part! ;)**

— **Kittie **


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